Cenotaph II: The Monolith
by Rob Sears
Summary: The year is 2214. A weary galaxy festers. Military privatization has become the norm in a new economic depression. A malicious plan, decades in the making, has finally been set into motion. The only one who can stop it? Roahn'Shepard and a team of some of the most extraordinary individuals the galaxy has ever seen. Fear. Agony. Hatred. Roahn's lethal nightmare begins!
1. Chapter 1: Buckethead

_Cosmic Year: 2214_

_The galaxy has changed. Its inhabitants have changed. Old ideologies, entrusted to interlink fragmented and disparate groups of races, have changed. _

_Nothing is as it once was._

_The Reaper War, devastating and final, dealt a terrible blow to the galaxy, but the titanic and multitudinous machine gods were vanquished, earning the galaxy respite. In their wake, they left shattered civilizations behind. In the time since then, governments had to be restructured, scars had to be healed over, and people had to find ways—for better or worse—to move on._

_Complications have ensued from this total reconstruction. The individual militaries for each race that comprised the Citadel Council were subject to near complete destruction. To fill this void, Private Military Companies (PMCs) quickly became incorporated into existence to provide security and a source of income for those displaced from the conflict. Companies such as Chimera, Interro, and Zone 75, among others, have found this new market to be lucrative and inviting. People, desperate for money, sign up to these corporations in droves._

_The PMCs have no loyalty to any one government. They are set upon their targets under employ of their customers, who could be anyone imaginable in this shattered time. Many times PMCs are deliberately directed to attack other PMCs. Sometimes the Council hires these PMCs to mollify small disturbances on colony worlds. Sometimes private owners send them out to secure land or resources. The PMCs operate without distinction—conflict is considered a total outcome, with civilians usually caught in the crossfire._

_Governments routinely send in the remains of their once-formidable armies to pacify the conflict that the PMCs cause, but their strength slowly wanes year after year while the corporations gain in both money and manpower. For their part in causing so many errant civilian deaths, the courts do their part to sanction the PMCs for such wanton violence. But the power of the courts are limited—the corporations have the means to hire the best legal teams known. No one corporation has been rendered insolvent from one class action lawsuit of their own._

_A breaking point is nearing._

_To forestall this inevitable meltdown, the Council has taken drastic action. Alarmed by the PMC crisis, the Council enacted a plan two years ago to establish a pacifying military force to maintain stability in the galaxy._

_The Council Defenders: a multicultural army all made up of volunteers. Veterans, fresh-faced rookies, all inhabit this capable fighting force. Warring PMCs are their prey. Their mission: to destabilize the strength of a PMC's fighting force in a conflict zone in order for its corporate structure to finally submit to a system of laws and harmony as dictated by the Council. But to accomplish this, many bloody campaigns await the Defenders._

_And so begins a war of attrition._

* * *

_Lower New York Bay  
10,000 ft. above sea level_  
United North American States

The wakeless ocean, flat and gray, rippled serenely in the company of the cool morning air. Murky tides produced invisible tugs, drawing the bay water far out to sea. Only the sound of the ocean's lapping yielded the only discernable noise for a time.

Then… a low thrum. Mechanical. Very distant, judging by the soft volume.

Clouds choked the sky, barely producing glimpses towards the field of blue that spanned the heavens. However, if one were to look up and peer very hard, they would be able to just pinpoint a little black dot spearing its way through the pillars of towering mist. Even from the ground, no details could have been possibly made out with the naked eye.

But another dot would soon join the leader. Then another. And another. And another.

Far too many to count would seem to leap out from behind the cloud wall, as if they had been lying in wait this whole time. A mass of pinpricks, many miles away, made their presence known in a swarm of metal, fire spewing from their engines as their control thrusters gently guided them lower to Earth.

Gunships. Troop transports. Fighters.

An army.

The swarm swooped low, towards the ocean, pulling up just enough for the wake of its passage to send scything cuts of white, foaming water to ripple in the direction of the shore. All together, they cut a path across the open bay, sending plumes of mist flying as they skirted their way towards the continent. A towering bridge spanned the closest point between two distant land masses—the ships carelessly flew underneath the structure, impassive to its existence.

Upon crossing some invisible point, the fighters, sharp-winged _Raptors_, all gave a burst of acceleration, widening their flight path area as they proceeded towards the heavily populated peninsula in the distance. The gunships and troop transports, conversely, slowed their velocity—thick flaps raised from panels lined along the roof, producing thick contrails in the voids they left behind in the air.

The lead transport straightened itself out a smidge—turbulence had temporarily knocked it off its flight axis. The occupants did not notice—inertia dampening fields made it so that anyone residing within the interior of the craft would not be affected by a bumpy or disorientating ride. As it stood, the pilot was relatively unconcerned as he adjusted a few controls on his holo-display, relying completely on instrumentation to guide his path. No other option really, the columns of fog were choking the ground and air ahead.

"SWORDSMAN Home, this is Saber-1," the pilot radioed in, his tone neutral. "We've cleared the Verrazano-Narrows. Beginning holding pattern."

The pilot heard a noise of boots on metal behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder for a moment to behold an armored soldier in blue-and-white Defender colors—a turian, one with the rank of major etched onto his shoulder plates—reach over to sync the radio frequency to his own personal channel.

"Major Rethius, SWORDSMAN," the turian spoke out loud, the alien's vocals causing an odd flanging effect to occur between his competing tones. "Forces are locked, loaded, and ready to disembark. Advise on current ground situation at Battery Park, over."

"_Saber-1_," the voice over the radio immediately said back, "_you are to remain in your current pattern for a duration of no less than two mikes. All other Saber call-signs will join you for disembarking. Be advised, the situation at your LZ is considered hot. We have confirmed reports of enemy armor and entrenched positions. Raptors are dispatched to begin bombing runs_."

"Acknowledged. Any change in the ROE?"

The Rules of Engagement were the strict commands set by the strategic minds during an operational campaign. They dictated the exact terms of how they wanted a battle to play out, whether it was to keep free fire in check, or to ask of soldiers to wage total decimation.

"_The_ _ROE have been modified_," Command radioed. "_Contacts in vicinity of the park are now to be declared hostile. Fire at will. Be advised, civilian evacuation has not been completed in the Financial District at this time. Any stragglers will be trapped in the nearby buildings. They have been instructed not to venture outside. Do not prejudice but stay frosty."_

The turian mustered a look of deep regret, followed by a thin, yet lengthy sigh. "SWORDSMAN, will this have an effect on the tempo of our mission? We're heading into a heavy fire zone and we won't have the ability to concern ourselves with not torching any civilians."

"_Your tempo is also to remain unchanged. Maintain aggressiveness. No civilians should rightfully wander near Battery Park with the current conflict right now. If they do and they get fragged, you can be sure that no one today will be held personally responsible_."

"Understood, SWORDSMAN" the turian nodded to no one in particular, his expression not one of complete comfort, but very slightly assuaged nonetheless. "Will provide next sitrep from the park."

"_See that you do. SWORDSMAN out_."

The turian major gave his head a subtle twitch, ending the call. He looked to the pilot, a human, for reinforcement, but remembered that SWORDSMAN's instructions to him were delivered in the privacy of his personal frequency, so there was no one he had around to share his reservations with.

Smartly, the turian turned around and made his way down the very tight connecting corridor, jumped off a small ladder, and ducked his way into the holding area. Fifty men and women—human, turian, asari, salarian—all wearing their Defender armor, stood in five cramped columns of ten. Some were currently reaching up to grasp at the fabric handholds to give the illusion of additional stability to their stance. Others stood with their feet slightly apart, grim looks set on their faces. A few shivered in place, eyes locked to the ground, nerves overriding their brain for the moment. A young, clean-shaven human drew a shaky smile before he suddenly pitched forward and vomited onto the transport floor, earning him a few groans from his fellow soldiers.

Rethius ignored the temporarily stricken man. He had been in so many battles that he knew all of the little idiosyncrasies that accompanied them in each of the individual moments. There would always be soldiers that would succumb to fear at any time. When Rethius had been in the trenches on Palaven, he had witnessed scores of his own forces fall to catatonia in a matter of seconds. Perhaps, for many aboard this craft, the memory of the Reaper War was merely a fleeting thing, not a permanent scar seared into the gray matter of their brains. Lucky them, but they clearly lacked the foresight to imagine what a real war was like, Rethius thought to himself. Had they been born earlier and had survived the horrors the Reapers had brought, perhaps they would have thought differently about signing up to this army.

Army. Rethius nearly failed at suppressing a laugh. The Council Defenders were no army. They had the funds, the troops, and all the trappings that made them appear to be an army, but deep down Rethius knew that they were nothing more than a bunch of ragtag enlistees either seizing upon the naïve propaganda that enticed potentially doomed farmhands to see the galaxy, or old-timers looking for a paycheck to cover their exorbitant medical expenses.

Or they were just like Rethius. Bored with the sensationalism of warring, not at all swayed by the promise of cash, simply adamant to pursue a profession in line with his limited skillset that did not come at the cost of his dignity. He could take money from the Council any day. Now, money from a PMC? Tainted. Who knew where it came from? It was blood money, every credit of it. No, he would remain damn true to his gut feeling that being a Defender was not only the right career move, but the right decision for his soul.

Rethius let his eyes sweep over the soldiers in the slightly rocking hold before he loudly rapped an armored knuckle upon the bulkhead—the signal for everyone to snap to attention.

"New orders, Defenders!" Rethius barked to the group. "We're going to be deploying on the southernmost side of Manhattan Island. Battery Park is the combat zone. All contacts are declared hostile. You are expected to be uncompromising in your advance."

An obvious, but still quiet murmur passed through the group. Rethius did not blame them. He knew that the thought of potentially wasting a civilian was not a prospect that anyone here wanted to go through. Still, he kept speaking.

"Recap: we've got two PMCs in direct conflict with each other in the killzone. Tyranno Systems is one, and Bucephalus is the other. They can be identified by their unique color schemes. Intel reports that they are wreaking havoc in the downtown area—pitted against each other by rival banking corporations to force damage to their assets. They believe that, by destroying enough property through the PMCs, one of these banks will be able to force a hostile takeover of the loser's remnants, gaining in both size and scope. Apparently, both these banks hired PMCs at the exact time—the wrong time—and sent them against each other in what looks like a complete and unlucky coincidence. That's why the Financial District of New York City has, if you want the short version, turned into a shitstorm."

An asari, purple-scaled, near the front raised her hand, wide-eyed and terrified.

"Private?" Rethius asked.

"Sir, are civilians expected to be present in the combat zone?" the asari asked. "Have Earth's militaries evacuated the area in time?"

This time, Rethius could not completely mask the regretful look that briefly flickered across his face.

"It has been reported to me that the NYPD and the Systems Alliance were unsuccessful in getting everyone out in time. However, I am assured that the civilians are making every attempt to stay in places of cover. You are not expected to come into contact with them but keep alert at all times. Be smart with how you pick your targets."

It was clear that this was not the answer the asari was hoping to hear, and judging from the morose looks being exchanged amongst the group, others did not like this bit of news either.

Rethius was not an idiot. He knew there were misgivings, but he could not dawdle on this lest he waste precious time or unnerve his troops even more by repeatedly introducing the idea that this whole campaign had the potential to go very wrong. He slammed his fist against the bulkhead again, returning everyone's full attention back to him.

"We have our orders," he raised his voice to add to his sincerity. "We know the situation. I expect you all to simply do your jobs. Now, next order of business: squad refresh. Lieutenant?"

The turian's eyes hovered past the assembled men. From behind the columns of bodies, at the back of the transport, a thin shape sidled into view, masked by the shadowed interior. They made their way forward, each step delicate but placed with steeled determination. The sleek, curved boots melded to the proportions of the three-toed feet that wore them, the soles gently clicking as they made contact upon the aluminum floor. As they approached the front, a shimmering veil of electric blue ice delicately washed over the individual's visor, where the greater expanse of light added to the sudden bloom of color. Two pistols were strapped to this person's hip. A shotgun was slung over their back, gently tapping against a grenade launcher that was nestled alongside it. Their three-fingered hands were slightly clenched, held firmly at their side as they maneuvered past row after row of bodies. The contours of their own figure were slim and graceful. A full-body uniform, replete in hues of stormy gray, completely enveloped them—an enviro-suit. Twin motes of melted glowing mercury—their eyes—speared past the aqua barrier of their visor, molded against a helmet made out of a dappled silver metal.

A traditional head-garb, common for this particular race, was tightly fastened against the metal helmet. Smudged and worn, despite its dark color, it seemed to burn a path clear through the gloom with how radiant it made its wearer in contrast to the rest of their wardrobe. The head-garb, a _sehni_, was a deep violet awash with curling spirals not unlike the churning tides of the ocean, woven from a memory. Patterns engrained in fabric, garroted by the color of a dying day.

Fifty years ago, the sight of a quarian would probably elicit tiny glimmers of fascination amongst the men and women currently in the transport at this moment. Their nomadic lifestyles rarely gave outsiders the opportunity to get a solid glimpse at them, for they preferred to keep to their own most of the time. But time is merely a dynamic factor and those frail in its wake are doomed to succumb to its subtle tendencies. Now, when a quarian would stand at the front of an attack column, the patch of a Defender lieutenant adorning their shoulder, not one of them would bat an eye.

Lieutenant Roahn'Shepard appraised the soldiers in front of her, taking a long, sweeping gaze to flicker from one pair of eyes to the next. Fear, anxiety, terror, panic. Common accompaniments prior to the slaughter. Roahn felt her heart grow heavy as she took the briefest of moments to absorb their worries. Many of these troopers were young. Too young. Barely out of high school, she figured.

_Keelah, many of them will die afraid._

The moment passed. Roahn let breath fill her lungs again. Even through the filters in her helmet, the temperature still passed through unchanged, keeping her properly chilled. Abandoning her woes to that nameless ether, Roahn unconsciously straightened herself as she prepared to address the forces.

"The situation on the ground is dynamic," Roahn begin her address, her voice easily carrying over the heads of every soldier, timbre light but husky. "We'll be in tight quarters so keep your range of fire limited to prevent crossfire. Expect rapid shifts in command—we're going to be tearing through enemy positions very quickly, so stay focused and do your jobs."

"Row One," Roahn snapped her head to the rightmost column, which was mostly lined with asari. "Southernmost trench. Shore up defenses and prepare to use your reserves for the biotic artillery. Row Two—," Roahn rotated her head to the left about ten degrees, "—take the rightmost flank and lay down cover fire so that we can get our armor in place. Three: disembark behind Row One's position and lay down suppressive fire. Four: main assault unit, I'll be leading you. Five: support units dig in and set up sniper positions to take care of bogeys holed up in the nearby buildings. Loud and clear?"

"_LOUD AND CLEAR, LIEUTENANT!_" the group howled as one. Roahn nearly smiled. At least they got that part down.

Roahn calmly reached over and grabbed an assault rifle from a nearby rack. She skillfully racked the slide back halfway, checking to see if there was a thermal clip already loaded, which there was. Satisfied, she dropped her arm to her side, her thumb clicking on the inferno round setting from muscle memory.

"Time to drop?" she called towards the front.

"Forty-five seconds!" the pilot answered back, his voice strangely clenched. "Careful, we've—,"

A sudden jolt rocked the craft violently. Many soldiers instinctively reached up towards the fabric straps on the ceiling to steady themselves. Some fell heavily anyway but their comrades were there to pick them back up.

Roahn grunted as she too had to straighten herself. If an impact like that made it through the acceleration dampeners, then whatever had been the cause must have been dangerously close. She had a suspicion and clambered up the stairway towards the cockpit simply to confirm it.

"AA fire?" Roahn asked as she leaned past the pilot's seat, her helmet nearly touching the window. The pilot responded, but his answer was lost on the quarian.

She could see it all from here.

The sun had begun to burn away the morning fog that had previously enveloped lower Manhattan. A scything, jagged mess of metal and glass tempered only by geological boundaries. Skyscrapers and levels upon levels of roadways intertwining upon each other in a seemingly meaningless dance. The city, a breathtaking spectacle, never failed to entrance Roahn, who had glimpsed it on only a couple of occasions beforehand.

But now, it was a city on fire.

The southernmost tip, Battery Park, normally a lightly forested area, green and enticing, was now a burnt plain of scorched grass, cratered dirt, and smoking stumps. Trenches and temporary pillboxes had been crudely erected where sidewalks and tennis courts had once resided, the park completely overturned to serve as a battlefield.

Troopers of varying shades of red and gold clashed together down at the park in waves. Not Defender uniforms, Roahn could tell at this distance. Tyranno Systems and Bucephalus. Two corporations at war with one another, with the only thing they had in common was that they both hated the Council Defenders. Small arms fire rocketed from the ground, pinging off the armor of the transports in brief flashes of sparks. Roahn could see, near the edge of the park, blocking the wide avenues, were sets of anti-air equipment, mobile cannons that fired erratically into the air, blowing apart the approaching Defender vessels as they made ready to land.

Roahn glanced over just in time to see one of these AA bursts catch a gunship directly on its nose. The craft went up in flames immediately, the resulting conflagration burning everything out, leaving just a skeletal chassis to plunge into the ocean, the angry foam hissing as the metal plumed it into the air.

_Fifty men gone, in the blink of an eye. Damn. They didn't even get their boots on the ground._

Omniscient to her internal panic, the pilot fiddled with the controls, maneuvering them even lower to the sea, under the minimum axis that the AA cannons could fire at.

"Fifteen seconds," the pilot announced over the intercom. "Prepare for disembarkation."

Roahn hurled herself down the ladder and raced to take her place at the side of the transport, out of the way of what would be fifty charging men and women making their way onto the battlefield. Roahn clutched her rifle, her breathing so deep it threatened to break her ribs. Keeping herself steady, she counted down the remaining seconds in her head.

_Ten…_

_Nine…_

Another soldier vomited, stricken by fear. He fell to his knees, hacking and heaving. No one spared a glance at him. Many were beyond terror. The adrenaline, that wonderful stabilizing agent, had taken hold of their systems, providing immense focus and hammering their duties home in their heads.

_Seven…_

_Six…_

An asari began hysterically moaning, tears flooding down her face. The private next to the alien roughly grabbed her by the collar, savagely muttered a few words in a low whisper to her face, and then released her. The asari was still tear-stained, but her composure steadied.

_Three…_

_Two…_

Now.

A slight bump jerked the craft. Touchdown. Roahn felt her arm move to hit the door release on the transport's side, but it seemed like her limb was all floaty, moving in slow-motion.

A wall of light slammed into the first row of soldiers mid-step as the front doors whirred open, already hastening to leave the cramped confines of the ship. One human lifted a hand to ward off the glare, momentarily blinded and disoriented, the sharp smell of cordite mingling with the salty tang of the ocean.

And a snap shattered the momentarily peaceful reverie.

The human, the same one who had held a hand up to protect his eyes, fell backwards as a bullet, fired from outside, slammed into his head. There was no warning. No one could determine where the shot had been fired from. The soldier fell backwards upon the man behind him, his face missing from his head. Nothing but a gaping maw of red hamburger remained, a darkly oozing hole.

"Mother of g—," the next soldier uttered upon seeing the remains of his comrade, before the same fate befell him.

Another bullet intruded and hit him just on the side of the jaw, blowing it clean off. There was a horrible hissing noise as a vacuum momentarily emitted in the place where bone and flesh no longer connected. Blood and bits of teeth completely sprayed over the asari next to him, who simply gaped in a clueless panic as she watched her compatriot die before her eyes, the remains of his cheeks completely blown out, hanging in tatters while his tongue lolled disgustingly in the open air with no jawbone to hold it in a mouth anymore.

"Oh… oh goddess," she too proclaimed.

Then everything went to hell.

Machine gun fire mercilessly barraged the interior of the vessel. Shooters from outside—Tyranno, Bucephalus, who could tell? The Defenders were overwhelmed in an instant. The troopers lining the front fell as they became riddled with holes, their blood exploding onto the floor, turning it slippery and red so dark it looked almost black. Exploding rounds zipped in, blowing off limbs. One such round descended in from on high, catching a man's hand and blowing it off at the wrist, leaving a shard of bone protruding from the stump. Rounds from low angles came in without prejudice, catching ankles and feet alike. Blood and bone popped, and many Defenders fell to the stained ground now sans a foot.

The sunlight was overwhelming. There was no way to tell what was going on. The sound of gunfire was increasing in tempo, becoming an ever-constant throb at this point. Roahn hunkered down, momentarily awed by the brightness of the blood as it was thrown clear of the bodies. Blood in all hues mixed in a disgusting swath. Red. Blue. Purple. Trifecta of death.

Then Roahn remembered herself.

"Defenders!" she screamed out, getting her panicked boat in order. "To me!" With nary a second thought, she got back to her feet and practically leaped out of the transport, going from being doused in darkness, to suffer the deadliness of the open air by herself. Her boots hit the chalky ground, fine dirt clinging to her boots. The imposing nature of the unnaturally tall skyscrapers went disregarded for the moment. All that mattered was finding cover and staying alive.

A dismal, intense thrum warped across the battlefield. A metallic concerto. Hydrogen engines revving from war mechs. The roar from the passing of jets overhead. The screams of the dying. The pops of the guns that delivered men to oblivion.

And there was that smell. Iron and metal. The warmth from the sun seemed to amplify it as it bounced across the windows of the skyscrapers in a bizarre ricocheting pattering. The ground felt hot to the touch, even as Roahn finally leapt into a nearby trench offering the sanctity of shadows, while bullets and death whizzed over her head.

Roahn quickly turned back and found that the soldiers under her charge had joined her in her assault towards the first position. Glassy-eyed, dulled to fear, they sprinted to safety, as if they could forget that their life could be snatched away at any moment from a well-placed shot.

A young human slipped as he approached the trench, his feet picking the wrong time to fail him. From where Roahn was crouching, she could see that the man had been hit in the thigh, though he was so hopped up on adrenaline that he did not seem to realize it yet. The pain eventually registered, hitting home when the man peeled a gloved hand away from his leg and found that it was stained red.

"Lieutenant!" the soldier cried out as he spotted Roahn. "Help me!"

Roahn did not spare a second thought. Stowing her rifle upon her back, she leapt up, out of the trench, and ran the last few meters to make it to the fallen man's position.

"I've got you!" Roahn tried to reassure the slowly panicking human as she slung one of his arms over her shoulders while she used her strong legs to propel the both of them upward. "Hold on!"

Roahn turned to make sure that she had the man's attention, but that moment was gone before she could ever grasp it, because a sniper's bullet flew through the air, invisible waves rippling in its wake, enough to crackle the quarian's shields. In an instant, the top half of the human's head exploded in a gory pulse, completely coating Roahn's visor. She had only a scant second to absorb what happened, quickly realize that she was staring at the ragged remains of a stump of a neck, before she felt her muscles slacken, the headless corpse now slowly dropping away from her.

Wiping the blood off of her blue visor, she had only a second to shiver. Stumbling, nearly blind, Roahn made her way back to the trench, fighting to keep her breathing even. Chunks of skull and brain matter had impacted onto her suit. She numbly wiped them off, plastering her back firmly against the trench wall, feeling the intense effort it took to slow her breathing down, close her eyes and try to force the image of that young man's head exploding out of her head.

Then she opened her eyes.

Refreshed with a new surge of anger, Roahn wheeled about, bringing her rifle to bear, as she opened fire on the enemy.

* * *

Near the Bucephalus line, Defender Corporal Alessia N'Tanis fired her shotgun with abandon at any of the darkly armored heads that popped up from the opposing lines. Superheated particles streamed all around her, the hissing of railgun rounds causing spasm-like shockwaves to rumble the very ground.

One of these railgun rounds would catch Corporal N'Tanis in the arm. The asari felt like she watched her limb sail away from her body for an eternity, the shotgun still clenched in her fist. She felt the blood dribbling from the stump at her elbow. Suddenly, what had been a warm day turned very cold.

Another bullet would strike N'Tanis in the neck, opening her jugular. A crimson spray erupted right in front of her eyes, glistening against the dry, orange sky. Now her face was hot. It had all happened so fast, she thought wistfully. She couldn't even remember falling face-first onto the ground of Battery Park, choking on the dirt and her own blood.

As she died, N'Tanis' last thought was that she wished she had told that human she had met at the bar last night that he was cute.

* * *

At the southernmost point of the park, Private Levy, all of eighteen years old, waved down the incoming armor transports with the beacons clenched in his hands. _Behemoth_ walkers and _Hammerhead_ tanks. The odds were about to become evened.

Dust clouds dispersed in circular waves as the winged ships momentarily touched down for their magnetic clamps to unlock, letting their cargo jump down onto solid ground. The two-legged walkers buckled as they hit dirt, but the servos in their legs took the punishment nicely. The pilots manning the controls were hidden behind armored plating—these things could take serious punishment.

Levy allowed himself to smile, a reaction shared by many in the presence of heavy-duty armor units. One walker was worth at least three highly-trained squads. With those high-velocity mini-guns, 35mm anti-armor autocannons, and rocket batteries, a _Behemoth_ walker was a force to be feared by any infantryman. Maneuverable in tight quarters, they could function in any gravitational environment, on any terrain.

Now the Defenders would have some teeth!

But as Levy was grinning at the shining new _Behemoth_ that was just stomping its way clear of the landing zone, the high-pitched whistle resonated deep in the recesses of the man's ears.

Artillery shell?

_No… rocket launch._

The frequency warped upwards so fast that Levy had no chance to find cover. All he could perceive in one moment was the menacing _Behemoth_ beginning to spool up its mini-guns, the next it had disappeared in a white phosphorous flash, the embers searing into Levy's eyes, his shield crackling and shattering in nanoseconds. Levy was thrown far away from the exploding mech, fire and smoke belching towards the morning sky. He felt a dull sort of pain at his stomach, but that quickly faded as his vision tumbled in all directions.

Levy rolled to a stop, not knowing how far he had been flung from the explosion. Numbly, he tried to lift his hands up to touch his face, but they felt weird, for some reason. Once his eyes finally focused on the charred objects in front of his face did Levy realize that those objects were, in fact, his hands.

Or… what was left of them.

Blackened from the fire, shattered from the pressure, all of Levy's fingers were either gone, or hanging by fibers from his hands. Levy let out a moan and tried to roll over so that he could get to his feet, but a terrible pain in his belly nixed that idea. Summoning his strength, Levy mustered the courage to look down at his body, transfixed at the sight of slippery, pink coils that had unraveled from a gash in his abdomen. The explosion had disemboweled him. He was staring at his own guts.

Levy lay on the ground, face up, waiting to die, simply wanting to know what losing his virginity would have been like.

* * *

_This… is… on! Get some!_ Anderr Varturus thought viciously as he bounced on the balls of his feet, staring anxiously at the shut hatch of the transport as he waited for the craft to fully touch down. It had seemed like he had been stuck in this miserable ship for hours, but now it was time! He was about to experience his first real action!

_Making you proud, dad._

Varturus, a turian, was grinning like a maniac at the front of the pack, having already switched the safety of his machine gun off. He was going to go at this full-bore. No limits. This was what he had trained for, to hurt these bastards that the Council had declared war on. He could almost taste iron on his tongue. He wanted blood.

"Five seconds!" the lieutenant roared out next to him. "Get to cover when we land! Do not stop until you do!"

The transport seemed to buckle. The sounds of war were right outside the door now. Varturus felt like he was going to pass out from excitement.

"Now!" he heard a scream. "Go, go, go!"

Varturus did not need to be told twice. He was running even before the transport door had finished descending to the ground, emitting dusty clouds as the heavy weight fell all the way down. The turian took one stride, then two, and glanced up momentarily to perceive the city encircling him.

"Damn," he murmured in awe.

He was looking up for so long that he failed to see the incendiary grenades that Tyranno mercenaries had just chucked in his direction. The red-decaled devices rolled to a stop at Varturus' feet, blinking serenely before detonation.

One moment Varturus was staring up at the sky, feeling an unimaginable calm, the next he was caught in a maelstrom of boiling and catastrophic fire. The flames were everywhere, on his skin, in his clothes, down his throat, in his eyes. He could not even scream, for the searing heat forced itself down into his lungs, the superheated gases charring his insides and cooking him from the inside out. He felt his eyeballs bubble and pop—the world went dark as what remained of his sclera dribbled down his ruined face.

Varturus fell, a smoking heap, having only made it one pace from the dropship.

* * *

"Get those biotic defenses up!" Roahn was screaming at the top of her lungs, clumps of dirt and soft objects that were most likely pieces of bodies raining down on them all the while. "Form your ranks! Engage at will and break their lines!"

Her words resounded, but it seemed like no one was listening. Clumps of Defenders all huddled in the trench, heads down to avoid being shot in the head. Many timidly peeked over the lip of the crevasse, only to duck back down with a panicked yelp as fresh holes suddenly punched their way into the ground inches from their eyes.

Roahn intermittently knelt back up to fire over the ridge. She timed her rifle bursts and grouped her shots in clusters of threes. She managed to land a few hits, but the shields of her combatants merely absorbed the blows with a crackle of static electricity. She still managed to down a few though, their heads popping nicely with a puff of vaporized blood and cracked polymer.

Some soldiers chucked grenades, but their range was inefficient to reach their enemies. Towering mechs, still glistening with grease and oil, creaking and whirring laboriously, trod over the trenches, momentarily blotting out the sounds of battle as soldiers came within range of its engaged mass effect fields. Missiles sailed through the air, impacting upon buildings, the shockwaves rippling out and shattering meter-wide radii of glass.

The Defenders were doing their best to return fire, but it was either Tyranno or Bucephalus that had the better position. Artillery, effective in the pre-sighted zone, blew crouched Defenders to pieces. Incendiary grenades ignited and set several noncoms ablaze. Their hideous shrieks mingled with the titanic roar of war as their armor melted into their cracking skin. Several of the flaming soldiers tried to dive into dirty puddles to set themselves out to no avail—the incendiary fuel was fireproof to a certain point. Many, in their panicked state, rushed out of the trenches to be felled by the PMCs' bullets, which was a much quicker fate. Those that still thrashed around in the trenches begged their comrades to kill them with whatever breath they could muster from their throats, hot gases having completely boiled their insides. Some of the anguished troopers complied. Others did not, lacking the courage, and could only watch their friends die in agony.

Roahn's visor was working overtime to compensate for the glare. While smoke from nearby fires was choking out the sun, its rays were still mercilessly bouncing off the windows of the city's buildings, making it feel like they were all under a magnifying glass.

A few hapless souls tried to scale the gravelly walls of the trench. Incoming fire stopped them in their tracks. The bodies were yanked back down, their blood mixing with muddy water as they splashed in the muck, very much limp.

One turian in front of Roahn tried to make a break for a stump just a few meters away to gain a little ground. A bullet tore the top of his head off instantaneously. The body fell with a thud. The PMCs did not stop shooting the corpse, though, and the remains of the turian jerked helplessly with blue spurts as bullet after bullet tore into it.

Watching the carnage, Roahn could only grimace, her rifle dangling helplessly in a clenched hand.

"Team leaders!" she called, waving a hand up in a circular motion. "Anyone who's not dead, form on me!"

Two humans, an asari, and a turian eventually pushed themselves from the throbbing mass and crouched next to Roahn, all in various states of anger or shock.

"Fifty meters to our northwest, there's a small rise," Roahn explained. "That's one of the CPs that we need to take. The Fifth Platoon will take the other, but right now, we need to get our biotics in place so that we can lay down some cover for the infantry."

"Who died and put _you_ in charge?" one of the humans barked. He was unrecognizable to the quarian—he must be from another company. The insignia upon his chest told Roahn that he was only a sergeant.

She ignored him for now. "You—," she addressed the asari first, "—take your group and move along the eastern edge of the combat zone. Follow the terrain but do not cross the roads. Hit them with a flanking maneuver once we have our artillery established."

Roahn was already moving onto the first human before the asari could acknowledge her orders. "Your group digs in here. Tiger teams of three: rotate your launchers to minimize cooldown time. Aim ten meters in front of the enemy's southern trench and once we're clear, go for the armor."

"Your group—," she spoke to the next human, the one with the loud mouth, "—you will—,"

"Oh, fuck that!" the man hollered, his eyes bugging out of his skull as another shell landed a bit too close for comfort, dirt spraying over everyone's heads. "I'm not doing a damn thing you say!"

Incensed, eyes slit so intensely that they seemed to burn through her visor, Roahn had to restrain herself to launch a string of curses at the man.

"In case you haven't noticed, _sergeant_, I'm a lieutenant!" she jabbed a finger upon her scratched pauldrons for emphasis. "That means I outrank you! And if you don't follow my orders, you are most certainly going to die in this place because there's only one way out of here, and that's by taking that CP!"

"I don't care if you're a lieutenant, god, or Commander _fucking_ Shepard," the man screamed back, spittle flying from his mouth, "I'm not going to be taking orders from a goddamned _buckethead!_"

Instantly, Roahn's heart skipped a beat from the pure spite that flowed through her arteries in that one moment. Buckethead. Despite all that had occurred in the past few decades, apparently some prejudices never fully died. The racist insult lingering in her head, a bevy of possibilities ran the gamut in Roahn's cortex. For all the talk of the Defenders' inclusivity, for all the so-called "unity" this galaxy had gone through, how was it that still some people could not be reached?

The urge to succumb to her influences could not be helped, so Roahn resisted no longer.

She lashed out with all her might. Her fist was armored. The man's jaw was not.

Blood exploded from the human's mouth as Roahn's punch spun him nearly completely around. Thick, red, and drizzled with saliva. The sergeant's eyes rolled up into his head as he gave a bubbling gasp and collapsed, stunned beyond all belief.

The other three group leaders were now staring at Roahn with a mixture of awe and fear. Roahn, flexing her fingers, testing them for damage (and finding them to be perfectly operational), nodded in the direction of the turian.

"Take over his group. See this through."

"Yes… ma'am," the turian stumbled over his words.

All three continued to mingle around, flirting with hesitancy. Roahn looked between all of them and, sighing, hefted her rifle and gripped it firmly with both hands while she set a foot onto the side of the trench in preparation. When blank looks still continued to appraise her, Roahn got annoyed.

"What, are you waiting for a pep talk? Do your fucking jobs!"

With that, she clambered over the edge, anger boiling in her vision, and left her gaping forces behind.

Multicolored tracers and beams all scythed around her in a deadly dance. Roahn could _feel_ the concussion each bullet left behind in their wake. Pulsing machine gun fire ripped just behind her sprinting form, too fast for the PMCs to catch. The ground shook. Hypersonic projectiles shattered sound as they fruitlessly tried to snag the quarian. They all failed.

Roahn's shield began to fizzle and buckle as a few lucky shots hammered home. She stumbled a little, her center of gravity momentarily caught off guard. More infuriated than hurt, Roahn sped up the pace, racing between the lines of smoking bushes, flaming piles of debris, charred stumps, all with the gigantic skyscrapers forming an impassive hemisphere around her, beckoning her to behold the city's immense glory.

A Bucephalus position was just up ahead. A trio of operators, at first having been concentrated at keeping the Defender line back, now slowly turned in a daze to see the lone quarian bearing down on them.

It was too late.

Roahn cut the three down with a sweeping rifle burst, her armor-piercing rounds shredding through the combat suits like they were paper. She dropped into the enemy trench, both eyes piercing. Another trooper was there to greet her—she fired point-blank into his sternum. The soldier's shield's briefly rippled as it absorbed the first few rounds, but quickly shattered under the punishing onslaught. He soon fell, his chest a bloody mass.

More and more Bucephalus forces were turning from the trenches towards her as she switched to her shotgun, just in time as brilliant arcs of azure energy began to pummel down from above. That would be the biotic artillery, exactly as planned. The ground seemed to erupt from below the surface as the waves of dark energy hit, billowing and curtaining in clouds of electricity and noise.

Roahn's finger was heavy on the trigger of her shotgun, knowing that if she did not continue to fire here and now, she would die. To hammer that point home, a round zipped by her side, narrowly missing slicing open her enviro-suit. Roahn cursed. For quarians, an enviro-suit breach was not the fatal death sentence it had once been before the Reaper War, but garnering on here, in such an environment filled with deadly particulates and pathogens, that would put her down for several weeks if she was lucky.

Roaring with rage, Roahn fired still. Bucephalus soldiers writhed and screamed as the wall of inferno rounds embraced them.

_Payback time._

The renegade troopers ripped off their helmets and pieces of their armor as they were now the ones set ablaze. They twitched and cried long, horrible notes. Boiling blood burst from their eyes and noses. The molecules of their skin and organs all superheated in a flash burn. Flesh dribbled off the bones of their face and they collapsed in smoking pieces.

Once the carnage had died down to a simmer, Roahn finally stopped firing, the barrel of her shotgun emitting only a thin wisp of steam.

_Ancestors…_ she tried to say, but bile held the words down.

The quarian felt oddly detached as she beheld the carbonized bodies of the men she had just slaughtered. There was no more blood—it had either boiled away or had soaked into the dry earth so rapidly there were not even any damp spots left. The remains of an arm, blackened and bubbled, lay outstretched towards her. A final plea for mercy?

Unfortunate that Roahn was not in a merciful mood.

Roahn turned to look back towards the bay, watching more and more Defenders jump from their landing transports, ready to get into the fight. The floating caravan formed a steel line in the sky, linking Earth and space, offering limitless resources for this useless battle on one world of trillions.

Her own side of the skirmish, led by the individuals she had previously singled out to lead their units, including the human she had punched (still sporting a bleeding mouth) was already up and out from their covered position, joining her in her assault, their guns blazing, eager to take lives away. Roahn let herself be still as her comrades ran around her—a rock in a river. Hollow, she watched as her platoon swarmed the next Bucephalus position, guided by the cool hand of wrath and hungry for blood. Routed, the Bucephalus troopers turned and ran for cover in the city, their previously ordered lines now broken down into a mad scramble. The harshness of the gunfire diminished in volume ever so slightly.

But Roahn had seen this all before. This was simply the new status quo. Corporate overlords shilling out men like they were currency, disposing of them as callously as if they were trash. Terrifying clarity infected Roahn so bitterly that she nearly sunk to her knees.

Bucephalus.

Tyranno.

Names on a board. Tomorrow, two more would take their place. A PMC's life expectancy was limited, but their impact was always dramatic. Roahn had been fighting against these sort of foes ever since she joined the Defenders. Not once did she ever run into the same PMC twice. The Defenders had busted every PMC operation that they had been alerted to, but the violence never left. The corruption had infected the political system, a system that had embraced the idea of private armies with open arms.

What a waste.

Death begets death begets death.

_How can I hope to stop it?_

Nearly in a daze, the burning hulk of a dropship engulfed in flames at the far end of the park scything in and out of view as her visor distorted the light, playing tricks with her eyes, Roahn staggered away from the captured position, nearly about to relax until a low-pitched whistle frantically began to swerve into audible range.

Too low for artillery.

Roahn looked up in reflex, managing to spot a dark dot high above her in the sky. But the dot was rapidly expanding—the object was plummeting towards the ground.

Towards her.

Eyes widening in realization and fear, Roahn immediately scrambled for cover, hurling herself to the ground and covered her head with her arms. A second later, something enormous hit the ground hard, throwing up billowing dust clouds and shaking the earth underneath her boots. The resounding jolt nearly threw Roahn upwards into the air a full inch, the impact trembling so close!

Once the wave of dust had passed, Roahn dropped her arms back down and hesitantly tilted her head back up, her eyes wide with despair.

Straightening from its impact position, the _Phantor_-class armored walker, slashed with vivid decals of red Tyranno paint, extended its thin "arms," the joints making tightened creaking noises before the trio of multi-barreled miniguns on each limb began to spool up in turn, creating a harsh whine that rapidly escalated into a deafening cacophony. The walker's clawed, bipedal, quad-soled legs stutter-stepped to provide itself a better center of gravity, leaving flattened bits of grass and gravel in its wake.

The _Phantor_ turned around once, the pilot trying to get a feel for his surroundings. In the midst of this battlefield calibration, the walker froze in place as it immediately spotted its first target of the battle: Roahn.

The pilot's laugh resounded over its cheek-mounted loudspeakers. "_Not your lucky day, quarian!_"

"Oh… shit," Roahn groaned out loud before she felt her legs pushing her up as fast as she could muster.

The place where Roahn had just been lying down detonated in a yellow and red series of flashes as the six miniguns on the _Phantor_ opened up all at once. The jackhammer concussions—hundreds of bullets in a second—felt like they were splitting Roahn's head open. She cried out, but pushed past the discomfort and hurled herself into the nearest trench, the lip of the gorge popping in quick succession as the machine's bullets careened into it.

"_Nowhere to run, quarian. Try and hide all you want, I'll still get you!"_

Roahn grimaced, ignoring the _Phantor_ pilot's confident snark, as she unlatched the grenade launcher from her back. A _Phantor_ was easily one of the most deadly pieces of arsenal a private military could hope to buy. Light, nimble, and ridiculously over-armed, they were unparalleled at shredding legions of infantry, worth ten times their weight in credits for all the damage they could perform in such a short time span. Hell of a time for this particular walker to focus all its attention on her.

Raptor jets raced by overhead, swerving to avoid the buildings while the _Phantor_ fired at the quarian. The shockwaves from the sonic tears the fighters left in their wake seemed to shake the earth apart. The windows of skyscrapers shattered from the brute force, raining the streets in jagged glass. Broken panes tumbled at Roahn's feet, sending her panicked reflection back upon her.

The ground at Roahn's back was shaking again. The _Phantor_ was approaching her position, obviously intent at cornering her here in this trench. Cursing, Roahn flung herself further down the makeshift crevasse as bullets were flung in her wake, completely devastating her previous cover.

"_You'll come out soon enough, bitch!_" the pilot crowed, but a hint of annoyance was now creeping into his tone.

One of the _Phantor's_ feet momentarily dropped into the ditch, knocking the mech off center for a moment. While the pilot was in the middle of adjusting, Roahn, still hefting the launcher, sprang out of the trench that had been saving her life and now ran along the ridge. She emptied the tube of the launcher—a silver streak that sailed just seconds across the shattered plain and detonated upon the kneecap of the _Phantor_. Metal squealed and wrenched, but the walker remained upright. Roahn jumped back down into another trench, out of sight of the pilot and his instruments.

The _Phantor_ turned in place for a few seconds, puzzled as to where the quarian had gone. Obviously feeling frustrated that he had lost track of his quarry so quickly, the pilot directed his attention onto other targets that he could spot in the distance, bringing his miniguns to bear on them instead.

Ear-splitting bursts blasted from the _Phantor's_ guns, tearing apart a Defender platoon that had just disembarked from its dropship. The Defenders, out in the open, had nowhere to go. The heavy rounds tore them to pieces. Many hapless troopers were completely cut in half, downed before they could ever hope to enter the fray. Smoke billowed over the split blood, the concrete below now stained a vivid red.

Beyond infuriated at seeing her fellow marines so carelessly cut down, Roahn bellowed a wordless cry as she sprang from the hole she had been using as cover, and fired the grenade launcher as fast as her finger could pull the trigger. Projectile after projectile found their mark and several concussive blossoms of thunder and fire turned metal into pulp. One of the _Phantor's_ arms, having been engulfed in the first series of blasts, tumbled to the ground, severed and now a smoking piece of wreckage.

The walker's knee was now bent and the war machine was listing heavily to the side. In quick succession, the knee finally gave and sent the _Phantor_ smashing towards the ground. The chin of the pilot's cockpit sank into the mud with a violent jolt, rocking the occupant uncomfortably. Roahn discarded her spent weapon and now raced at the disabled walker, her omni-blade ignited around her left arm and humming with a quiet, but violent energy.

Roahn checked to see if any of the _Phantor's_ weapons were operational before she completely approached—they were not. She then positioned her omni-blade, extended at its full length, and surgically pushed it against the metal of the cockpit's latches, sawing it open.

The hatch of the _Phantor_ was rated to survive temperatures up to 500 K. Roahn's blade could go up to 600.

Steel bubbled and frothed angrily as Roahn pushed her omni-blade deeper and deeper into the walker. Sparks burst into her face, bouncing off of her visor harmlessly. Superheated plasma crackled and dribbled down the white-hot cut the quarian was making into the mech. Roahn could feel sweat begin to trickle down her back, her muscles aching from the exertion.

But after a minute had passed, she heard a _pop_. Immediately, she withdrew her blade and grasped at the latch of the door, tugging and clawing at it with all her might. Her mouth locked into a savage grimace, turning feral as she pushed the cords of her muscles beyond their potential and into certain insanity.

The hatch swung open!

Roahn had barely any time to react as she saw the armored pilot—humanoid—flail about for a second, shrieking in fear as the quarian tore his protective covering away. She must have looked quite a sight, silhouetted against the sun, her omni-blade dripping fire and sparks, face obscured by the color blue.

That was when Roahn saw that the pilot was groping for a pistol.

She was not exactly sure how her body knew to make all the right moves in that next second, only that pure instinct overrode logic in its frantic effort to preserve her life. The omni-blade slashed the air in half and the pilot's hand, severed at the wrist and still clutching the pistol, dropped to the ground between Roahn's feet.

"Wait!" the pilot shrieked as he was now grasping his wounded limb, which was spurting blood all over his white chest-plate. "Wait, mercy! I want mer—"

The thin omni-blade speared perfectly into the pilot's throat, permanently silencing him. There was, however, one final choking noise, and the human's remaining hand began to unexpectedly grab at Roahn's wrist, although he lost consciousness far too quickly for him to forestall his death.

Roahn withdrew the blade, opening the wound up and allowing a geyser of blood to hit her full-on. Red mist stained the front of her enviro-suit as she looked on at the man dispassionately, utterly hating him for what he had done to her comrades and what he had stood for. He had dressed up in the uniform of a private army… all for a paycheck. He had sold his soul and his principles all for the promise of a grievously low income. He was just one out of thousands—_millions_—that had fallen prey to this gigantic scam, this joke, that had perpetrated every corner of this galaxy.

This man, the dying pilot, had taken the PMC's money, fully knowing that it was a license to commit murder.

Roahn hated this man. She hated them all. They dared to upend a perfect future for the sake of a few extra credits. Her well of disgust ran infinite.

The pilot was still not dead as he was still wheezing in his diminishing breaths. Roahn felt her teeth grow cold and she stabbed him again, this time in the chest. Then she stabbed him a third time when he still did not die. And again. And again. Blood no longer sprayed out in between blows. The human's heart was not pumping strongly enough for that sort of pressure—it leaked out instead. Hissing noises from the gaping holes in the pilot's body emitted where gas could escape from the fleshy cavities.

Finally, after countless blows had been inflicted upon him, the pilot did expire, leaving a gasping and disgusted Roahn by the wayside. She tried not to look at what she had done to the man, already feeling dread creep at her spine, guilt lodging into her very soul. The mutilation, it had just burst from her, uncontrollable and savage. So many planets she had traversed, so many of the same pointless battles. Already she had had enough.

Roahn had completely forgotten that she still had firearms at her disposal, but she ran on to the next position, omni-blade still out and blazing. The battle was not over yet, after all, and she had switched her mind over to the next objective that needed conquering. It was the only way for her to stay sane. She could face regret for her actions later. Right now, she had a job to do.

Tyranno was the only PMC left on the field at Battery Park and they were occupying the last command post in a two-mile radius. It was not a far jog for Roahn to traverse and she soon found herself taking up the back of a charge alongside her fellow Defenders as they worked to overrun their foe's position. Not complacent with the idea of picking up the scraps of the skirmish, Roahn sidled over to Tyranno's flank, where the fighting was the thinnest, but it also meant that she could insert herself into the conflict for maximum effectiveness.

A mounted machine gun indicated the beginning of one of the Tyranno trenches. Sandbags and other pieces of thickened metal barriers had been stacked around the gun emplacement—Roahn was in the blind spot of the gunner as she approached.

She mounted the brief rise of the reinforced position, surprising the hell out of the armored Tyranno gunner, and stomped on the barrel of the gun, sending the grip of the machine gun flying upwards to crack the man hard on the chin. He fell completely backwards, limbs splayed out into the mud as he lay there, teetering on the edge of consciousness.

Roahn roared and leaped over the rim, plunging her omni-blade directly into the man's heart. The Tyranno trooper jerked once and lay still. Panting, forehead beaded with sweat, Roahn nearly collapsed upon the man she had just killed, using a hand to steady herself upon the pristine white chestplate, leaving a three-fingered handprint behind in the man's blood, dark liquid glistening and fat with heavy drops.

The quarian lifted her head as she detected movement at the top edge of her peripheral vision. A Tyranno soldier was stalking his way towards her, careful in his gait after witnessing her impale his comrade. A wicked-looking knife was clutched in a gauntleted hand—his knees were bent in a prepared stance.

"All right, you little cunt," the soldier rasped wickedly around a grin hidden by his helmet, eager to engage in a one-on-one battle of their own. "I'm going to enjoy cutting your guts out of your—"

Roahn whipped her omni-blade in a sweeping arc, severing one of the legs of the turret's tripod next to her. With its center of gravity off-balance, the turret toppled down towards Roahn, who caught the trigger handles of the weapon and immediately clenched down upon them as soon as she could get a grip.

The monstrous dual barrels of the gatling gun immediately opened fire in throbbing blasts. Tracer rounds arced and hit the soldier from head to groin, turning him into chunks of meat and a fine red mist.

Roahn only stopped firing after the Tyranno trooper had completely exploded. Some of the man's lower extremities still had not finished settling as the wet ground darkened—a lingering shadow. Allowing a sigh to burst from her throat, Roahn released the handles of the turret, her head momentarily resting upon a porous rock that had been partially unearthed within the trench. She was exhausted.

Panting, her whole body aching, Roahn groaned as she felt an incredible lethargy wash over her. She mustered enough strength to roll over on her back. Neat and straight contrails cut through the caramel sky above her while the sun glistened off any skyscraper window that had not been shattered by an explosion, bullet, or sonic boom. Her suit was marred with dirt and blood. Her fingers felt stiff and arthritic.

With a shaking hand, Roahn managed to thumb her comm. "Echo Lieutenant… SWORDSMAN."

"_Go ahead, Echo_."

"Tyranno forward position… secured. The Defenders have the park."

"_Solid copy, Echo. We show that Tyranno and Bucephalus are in a full retreat from the Financial District. Hold your position and evac the remaining civilians who were unable to get out before. Transports are already on station and ready to depart. Acknowledge."_

"Echo copies," Roahn grunted as she struggled to get to her feet, dashing spears of mercury light cutting a path from her eyes. "Over and out."

* * *

_Forty-five minutes later_

For once the term "military efficiency" actually rose above its station as an oxymoron. Roahn was impressed at the feat that the Defenders had been able to pull off, but was somewhat suspicious of its circumstances.

Her slit eyes betrayed her misgivings. She ended up giving sideways looks at everyone.

Still blood-splattered, Roahn had double-timed it from the park to the evacuation checkpoint that the Defenders had set up as soon as she had gotten off the comm with SWORDSMAN. She had traversed ten city blocks in a little under ten minutes, linking up with her lost platoon in the process. She led the unit at the front of the pack, setting the pace for everyone else to follow—not at all at a breezing walk, though.

Civilians had been lined up in an orderly fashion, the queue stretching around the block. Frightened women of all races—mostly human—clutched their screaming children. Wearied husbands held their wives close. All of them looked particularly miserable, with many of them glancing up towards the sky every time a passing fighter roared past. Most of the kids covered their ears as the bellow of the engines drowned out their own voices.

Roahn, impassive to the noise, marched past them without breaking stride.

Several commandeered civilian shuttles had been lined up in tight columns on one of the piers that jutted out into the East river. Several dozen landing pads comprised five distinct levels of the Lower NYC Spaceport, filled to the brim with transports ready to go, their thrusters already on standby. The Spaceport had the appearance of a multi-leaved clover, with its landing pads positioned in pinwheel fashion. Light cut through the supports of the structure, shadows creating slashing grids across the city.

A small child, panicked from the noise, broke from the line and raced for safety, disregarding the screams from his mother. Roahn, hearing the commotion, jumped backward, held out a hand and smoothly caught the kid around the waist. The boy tried to struggle, but the events of the day quickly took their toll on him and he ceased all resistance in moments. Roahn waited until she was sure that the boy had been tired out before she gently picked him up and walked back over to his mother.

"Thank you…" the woman, a young little thing with mousy blond hair, stammered. "I can't… I don't know where to go. This is my _home_…"

"You need to go with everyone else," Roahn replied, her voice a little sterner than she would have liked, but her adrenaline was slowly slipping away, replacing it with an apathetic drowsiness. "It's not safe here for you two."

"B-But…"

"You'll come back here soon. Your home is not lost, but you can't stay here right now."

"For how long?" the woman moaned. "How long will we have to run? This isn't our fight. This…" she looked the quarian up and down, "…isn't yours either. We have no part of this."

"All the same," Roahn said. "We can't leave you behind in this place."

"Why? Why do this to us?"

Stiffly, Roahn bit her lip before responding. "I can't give you an answer to that. You're also asking the wrong side that question, anyway."

The young mother briefly appeared mortified and ashamed as she withered in the face of Roahn's calm tone.

"Here," Roahn gestured as she slowly led the woman from the line and towards the expedited gate, where other civilians took the elevator to the top of the landing pads. "Get your boy out of this city. You need to leave, for his sake."

As the mother edged into the elevator, holding her child close, she fumbled with her words before the doors closed. "Can you at least tell me your name?"

Roahn rigidly stood by, waiting until the closing doors had reached the halfway report before she partially turned away.

"I'm Roahn'_Shepard_," she mumbled, but it was so soft that the words could not have been heard by anyone else.

Only her.

The elevator doors finally closed, the chrome surface sending her warped reflection shooting back in her direction. She was just a mess of color: purple, blue, red. In the glass of Roahn's mind, she could feel something tearing from her very soul, pouring from her body as she thought of that woman and her child, probably looking up with terrified wonder at the infinite void that would soon accept them.

She had been like that once. Small and afraid. Metal demons had threatened to rip her from her parents too. Faceless and merciless demons, all their causes murky and ambiguous.

Private armies. Roahn hated them all, down to their festering, rotting cores. The people that comprised them to the people that hired them. Hate. Hate. Hate. Roahn wanted to squeeze all of their necks so tightly that their vertebrae popped, strong enough that their eyeballs would bulge from their sockets, their voice boxes crushed against their larynxes, if only to impart a fraction of the grief they had caused her and so many others.

Words could not describe just how deep her hatred ran.

She wanted to kill them all.

* * *

Sustained, heavy bursts of gunfire unexpectedly erupted from one of the buildings at the far end of the boulevard, back towards the center of the district, blowing out the windows whose reflections had previously been hiding it from view. Civilians screamed and scattered, running in all directions away from the spaceport as they tried to flee with their lives. Defenders similarly ran for cover, utilizing anything within their vision to hide from the incoming bullets.

"Entrenched position, GRAY HAIL!" Roahn screamed into her comm as she ducked behind a shattered truck, its tires missing and windows in pieces. "Grid Saber-Eight-Five-Tango-Niner-Two-Three-Bravo! Request one LV orbital round! Danger close!"

"_GRAY HAIL confirms_," the voice over the comm said smoothly. "_Low-velocity round acknowledged. Grid coordinates are correct. Delay in effect. Prepare for splashdown in five seconds_."

"Friendly orbital strike!" Roahn yelled at the top of her lungs to anyone who would listen. "Danger close! Heads fucking down!"

The Defenders in the surrounding area immediately went prone and covered their heads. There was a muted thump and then a streak of light miles long speared down from the heavens, impacting the side of the mirrored building at the perfect angle. The orbital round was still travelling fast enough to punch through the other side of the skyscraper and into the underground transit system below. The PMC gun placement was there one second and nonexistent the next, having been blasted to smithereens from the overhead blast. Just a smoking hole remained, with torn piping leaking water and other fluids down onto the sidewalk below.

Roahn grumbled as she got back to her feet, her elbows now smarting from having been flung down to the ground so many times in short succession. The orbital strike was most likely overkill, but Roahn was at her wit's end today. She was not going to have her men suffer through several costly minutes of clumsily returning fire at a secure building when she had the resources to blow the obstacle out of the way with a mere word. The skyscraper was a total loss, obviously, and was now a compromised structure. If it did not collapse on its own accord, it would have to be demolished, but Roahn was not concerned by the cost of cleaning up this city after they were through.

She was concerned with the cost of lives accrued this day.

"There could be more in the building," Roahn said as she circled the platoon closer to her position. Armed but weary, they formed a ragged mob as they gazed almost serenely in the direction of the destroyed tower, following their lieutenant's example. "We're going to flush them out."

"Roger that, ma'am," one of her sergeants said. No one else piped up with anything to say.

The platoon plodded forward at a menacing pace two lanes abreast down the avenue. Roahn carried her pistol at her side, the rest of her weaponry strapped securely to her back. The heavy units jogged forward to take point, their powerful assault rifles sweeping the front in a conical sector, searching for signs of enemy movement. Machine gunners took up the rear while the engineers, touting shotguns, stayed near Roahn.

They had gotten about two blocks left to go before they reached the destroyed structure when every single one of their radios squealed a harsh, multi-toned electronic shriek.

Three long tones. Dissonant. Red-Three alert.

"A fucking R-3…" one of the troopers muttered out loud before the comms overtook him.

"_All units, SWORDSMAN. Be advised, confirmed nuclear ordinance on the field. Repeat, multiple nuclear weapons are on the field. Minimum-yield devices only. Engineers are standing by for disposal. Report to your sectors and prepare for immediate evac_."

The Defenders were looking amongst themselves with rapidly growing alarm. "Oh _shit_," one incredulous soldier bemoaned. "They're joking, right? _Nukes?_ Where did these PMCs get their hands on nukes? There's no way they're going to use a nuke in a _city_."

"You don't know what these maniacs are capable of," another trooper, a turian, drawled. "Besides, minimum-yield strength? That wouldn't even level a city block."

"How would _you_ know that?!" someone in the back chimed in. "For all we know, _we_ could be in the blast zone!"

"We're thirty units in a city of more than a few million people, nowhere close to any mission critical areas. We're not a strategic target to waste a nuke on. We'll just make our way to the evac zone and get the hell out of here—leave the rest to the engineers."

"He's right," Roahn stepped in between the two, her smoky expression furrowed in concentration. "We don't have time to waste by squabbling. Tyranno and Bucephalus want to cover their tracks by deploying a nuke of the weakest strength? Let them. This part of the city's mostly empty, anyway. We'll repay them back in kind soon enough. But right now, we can't afford to stand around like a bunch of defenseless civilian—"

The word ached in her mouth before she had a chance to complete it. The abhorrent thought radiated such putridity that Roahn nearly believed that she could imagine such fresh and obscene horrors.

But it made sense.

How else would a PMC hope to run from a fight they had already lost?

Take hostages.

No… kill innocents.

In an instant, Roahn wheeled back the way she had come, the water's edge now seemingly stretched out for miles in the distance, between the concrete walls of the artificial canyon. Ignoring the shouts from her men, the quarian broke out into a sprint, long legs relentlessly tearing up meters of ground as she ripped the last of her strength into this one final push.

"_All units, be advised_," the radio chimed, "_MLLR-sats have triangulated location of nuclear devices in play. Stand by for the following locations: Broome at Soho, Chambers at Tribeca, Abington Square—,"_

"No, no, no!" Roahn yelled into her own commlink, but SWORDSMAN was broadcasting over all channels. Her breath was heaving and her lungs rasping but she continued to scream even as she ran. "SWORDSMAN, Echo Lieutenant! Confirmed SCRAM-N at Pier 17! Spaceport District! We need engineers on-site ASAP! Repeat, we need—,"

A flicker reminiscent of a hungry flame glimmered to life in midair. The silver outline of a transport from the top level of the Spaceport, momentarily hung independent of gravity. The candle-like flicker then collapsed upon itself, giving Roahn the barest hope that she had merely witnessed a trick of the light.

But then the spaceport exploded.

A wave of pressure caught Roahn full on, throwing her head-first back down the avenue. Clouds of dust, smoke, and debris consumed her. She did not even feel her body hitting the pavement and rolling end over end until she finally became nestled in the entranceway to a vacant building. Something inside her cracked, creating blistering pain whenever she drew breath. Her vision grayed out.

Before Roahn finally blacked out, her eyes managed to catch the thin, rising mushroom burst of fire and smoke that grew from the very ground, contaminated and blackened. The spaceport, she could see, had been levelled to the ground… along with the thousands of civilians who had been using it as a conduit for their safety.

Gone.

All of them, gone.

Shivering as the howling wind sucked back towards the nexus of the detonation, Roahn let the tiredness overtake her, finding it oddly difficult to breathe now.

* * *

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed since falling unconscious, but Roahn could at least determine was that at least an hour had gone by, due to where the sun was in the sky above her.

As awareness seeped back into her, Roahn wiggled her digits, all twelve of them, remembering it as one of the first tests a soldier makes to check for paralysis. No difficulties there, which was good. Now, for her surroundings: sky perpendicularly oriented to her face meant that she was lying down, moderately uncomfortable pressure at her back indicated that she was lying on a military cot, and the existence of her sense of pain alerting her to such a minor annoyance was a clue that she was not seriously injured.

With a gasp, Roahn sat up. She instinctively brushed herself off, finding that she was caked head to toe with dust that had been flung up from the explosion—her entire enviro-suit was now colored a dirty brown and her efforts at cleaning were just smearing the grime in further.

Craning her head, Roahn found white shapes anxiously bustling about to and fro: people clad in white, sterile uniforms. Medics. Doctors. Roahn glanced around and spotted the familiar symbol for a medical tent nearby, embroidered on a flag as it flapped lazily in the stiff breeze.

Another quick appraisal of her surroundings revealed that Roahn was back in Battery Park. Her men must have found her and dragged her over to the medics for treatment. Or… whatever kind of treatment they could give to a quarian in the field.

One of the medics saw her and hurried over. A woman, human, auburn-haired, quickly knelt next to Roahn. "No, you need to rest," she gently chastised the quarian. "You can't sit up right now."

"I'm _fine_," Roahn grumbled, her voice caky in her mouth. "I don't need any rest."

The medic frowned, frustrated at Roahn's attitude, but she could not very well force the quarian to take any shut-eye on a battlefield.

"You're lucky you don't have any brain damage," the woman merely shook her head in frustration. "You must have taken the brunt of the shockwave—cracked a few ribs in the process, so you must have been close to the epicenter. With all the adrenaline and exhaustion you've been through, you entered a temporary coma. An ability natural to quarians, so I'm told, to stave off injury."

"It's a defense mechanism in our species. It helps us withstand punishment," Roahn gritted out as she tenderly prodded a rib. Dull pain erupted from her side, but it was not an immediate agony. Her enviro-suit must have dumped some medi-gel into her through micro-syringes embedded in the interior of her suit. The medi-gel would have already set the broken ribs, but there would still be some residual tearing damage inside her that she would have to deal with for a few weeks.

"Well, you can thank your suit for doing the heavy lifting. It administered a drug cocktail that increased your blood pressure after you apparently dropped dangerously low. You didn't garner any breaches, so you won't be stricken by any illnesses or reactions to anything in the air. All the same, you got off lucky, lieutenant.

Stone-faced, the medic turned to leave, but not before Roahn caught her wrist. "The bomb…" Roahn murmured.

"…Yes?" the medic whispered, not understanding.

The quarian looked up, her eyes peering through her dirt-encrusted visor, the polished metal now scoured and chipped. "I was close to the epicenter, as you said. To a nuclear explosion. Am I contaminated?"

Now the medic comprehended, recognition flickering in her gaze.

"We didn't detect any radiation in your system," the medic said, not noticing the slump of Roahn's shoulders from relief. "You don't need to worry about that. The yield from those devices wasn't substantial enough to cover any critical area. It's mostly confined to an area above the East River and a small part of the coastline on the peninsula."

"And the mission? Did we succeed in our mission?

The medic now smiled warmly. "We did. Two platoons up in Midtown managed to reach the benefactors behind the warring PMCs and captured them, ending the battle. You can relax, lieutenant. You had a victory today."

_Tell that to the thousands of civilians who just got vaporized_, Roahn sourly thought, but she let go of the medic's wrist, allowing the woman to move on to other patients.

Platoons in Midtown. Roahn would have cursed out loud, but it would have been too painful for the effort, so she just stewed in her anger. SWORDSMAN had not even deigned to inform her and her men about another incursion force. They had all just stormed the park, all thinking that they were the front line of the entire fighting force, when in fact they were nothing but a distraction, a useful idiot while others skirted the conflict, avoiding the casualties, and earning the day for themselves when they shut the PMCs down.

Roahn's fist clenched so hard they could shatter a battle helmet. Five campaigns. Five of these campaigns in a row she had participated in, and every time it felt like nothing was changing between them. A PMC goes rogue, the Defenders swoop in and put them down, the day is saved, and suddenly another one pops up elsewhere in a gigantic game of whack-a-mole. The script played out the same way to the letter. There was no end to the scourge. Living bodies were being thrown against a problem with no clear solution. At this rate, the Defenders would die a slow death from the number of men they were losing. They may have been killing more people on the PMCs' side, but what did that matter when there were hundreds of PMCs still out there?

Death by a thousand cuts.

The bureaucracy of the Defenders sometimes seemed converse to their actual mandate of saving lives in this galaxy. And was that not why the Defenders were formed in the first place? To save lives? Management was simply screwing them over like this by their erratic communication. Everyone was way too siloed—platoons had no proper communication between each other, command seemed like they were deliberately keeping their men in the dark on aspects of the battles. This complete lack of transparency was the true cancer in the Defenders, Roahn figured. Hundreds of their own people killed today over a plot of land that proved to be meaningless in the long run. All they did was put on a big and dramatic show to draw the PMCs to them while their true objective apparently was several miles further from where they had been dropped off.

Command could try and claim that they used Battery Park as a battlefield to draw the fire away from the civilians. A worthy attempt, except that civilians had been killed anyway when apparently Tyranno or Bucephalus had somehow gotten their hands on nuclear ordinance. Whatever narrative command would pull in an effort to spin the events of today positively, Roahn knew they would have quite the challenge on their hands.

A bucket of water, black and putrid, sat next to the edge of the flimsy cot. A stained rag lay draped over the side. Roahn fidgeted as she absentmindedly touched the worn edges of her _sehni_, only concentrating on the grime that permeated the cloth.

She reached up and began unfastening the loops and snaps that held the _sehni_ taut against her helmet. It was a deceptively complex design that reached down to her back, around her arms, and tugged at her waist. It took several minutes for Roahn to tug the entirety of the _sehni_ free, but eventually she held the thick fabric in her hands, her helmet now glistening in the smoky sun. She surmised that she looked almost pathetic with nothing covering the top of her helmet, allowing people to see the assortment of oxygen and vital fluid tubes that connected to ports near the base of her skull, spiraling down into her suit to feed valuable systems that kept her alive. Bare. Almost like she was unarmored.

Roahn took the dirty rag, wet it in the water, and wrung it out as best as she could before she began to dab at the _sehni_, soaking up most of the grit. Violet hues blossomed as the water soaked the threads.

The _sehni_ had been her mother's. A striking woman. Tali'Shepard vas Rannoch (nee Zorah). She had passed away when Roahn had still been a child, with only her father left to raise her. Before she had died, she had instructed her father to give Roahn her _sehni_ when she grew up, to remember her by. Each day that she wore it, Roahn would never forget Tali.

All of the memories that she had of her mother were all wonderful, but each day merely widened the gap from the last day that she had been alive. It was nearly twenty years since that terrible day. More than half her lifetime had been spent without a mother. A small sacrifice in the grand scheme of the galaxy… but Roahn would never stop feeling regretful at not having more time with her. Just a day. One more day would suffice.

As Roahn continued to clean her trappings, she was momentarily distracted from her duties by the wailings of a man a few cots over. Doctors and assistants were crowding around a man—a human Defender—that had just been brought in. The most recent casualty from all the scattered skirmishes taking place all over the city. Even from here, the vivid color of blood seeped into Roahn's eyes, armor and bodysuit of the soldier stained heavily with his life. Vomit and fluids stained the ground below the cot—the doctors were slipping in it as they tried to restrain the man and put him under.

From here, Roahn could see that the man was dying. It looked like he had been torn open by an explosive round. Fat pink tubes of guts coiled their way out from a deep cut in his belly. His squeals were unbearable. It was unbelievable that he managed to stay alive all this time.

Now Roahn could hear the doctors calling for morphine—or some other opiate that Roahn could not place. She understood implicitly. The doctors were going to deliberately stop the man's heart to spare him further agony. They could do nothing for him other than give him peace. Looking at the ruined soldier, Roahn could not disagree with their decision. It was what she would have done in the moment.

She looked away.

In time, the screams died down to pathetic moans. The moans then dissolved into pained squeaks. The squeaks quieted in short order.

Roahn's hands continued to clean the _sehni_ but she was no longer staring down at the fabric. Glassy-eyed, she instead looked to the uneven horizon, past the bay and the ridges of the nearby coasts, curving upward towards the inky black nothingness and wondered what fruitless effort would chance upon her next.

_Forward… to the next exercise in futility._

* * *

**A/N: The first thing I'd like to say is sorry I took so long.**

**I know it's been half a year since Cenotaph I came to an end, but I always did have the intention of returning to this series sooner or later. However, a new job and moving to a new apartment sort of drained me of whatever creativity I had left, so for a while, I was simply easing into my new routine, trying to figure out exactly how to utilize my free time effectively. But I think I've finally worked bits of my life around to compensate and maintain free time of my own in the process. Thus, I think you can pretty much consider Cenotaph II to be fully in production.**

**A few caveats: updates are going to be a little scattershot, I'm afraid. I'm setting a pretty strict schedule for myself that will allow me to follow regular updates, but they are most likely going to be a couple of weeks in between. If you like the slow burn approach, then you'll probably be fine with this arrangement. If you're the type that likes their updates to come at a rapid-fire pace, sorry to say that you might be a bit aggrieved by this new approach.**

**So, what should you guys expect from Cenotaph II? Well, if this first chapter didn't make it obvious, Roahn will be taking the spotlight in this story. Yes, Shepard's still around, but his role will be reduced to a background character here. We're now in Roahn's story and she's gone through a whole lot of changes since you guys saw her last in Cenotaph I. She's got some surprises up her sleeve and I'm hoping you all will find her an heir worthy of the Shepard moniker by the time this story has been completed. Also, some of the loose threads from Cenotaph I will be addressed in II, so if some of you are still trying to decipher exactly what the hell I was writing in the first installment, you'll get some of your questions answered here.**

**Some, not all.**

**Let me know what you think about this first chapter and I hope you enjoy Cenotaph II: The Monolith.**

**Playlist:**

**Battle of Battery Park**  
**"Synchrotone"**  
**Hans Zimmer**  
**Black Hawk Down (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Phantor Fight**  
**"Outlaw Ambush"**  
**Sarah Schachner**  
**Anthem (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Civilian Evacuation/Nuclear Detonation**  
**"Face Hugger"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Alien: Covenant (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	2. Chapter 2: The Micro Game

"_Press the cover button when next to an interactive surface to shield yourself from enemy fire. Unless you happen to get killed in the process because you were too slow to press the button that was less than a centimeter away from your thumb. At that point, there's no one to blame but yourself. Try harder next time."_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

New York City

The chassis of the open-air truck design—a light infantry transport—rattled uncomfortably as the tires found their way into potholes, cracked circles of shattered concrete scorched by weapons fire. The hissing of the suspension system scythed through the air, indicating just how hard it was to keep the truck properly leveled while traversing the bumpy and pockmarked road.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Roahn gripped the front hand rail as she pressed one of her feet against the tire wall to give herself some additional stability. The truck had no seatbelts. She constantly had to shift her muscle strength from limb to limb as the vehicle jostled back and forth, always keeping her on her toes. The ride itself was not unbearable, but neither was it akin to sitting atop a cloud. Roahn just had to bite her lip and take it.

The city was a literal maze of steel—one that was still being adjusted to accommodate ground vehicles instead of skycars. While there were a plethora of skycar lanes available above New York City's boundaries, it was the extensive transportation system on the surface that gave the city its fame.

All of the major avenues and roads in New York City were multi-leveled. Stacks upon stacks upon stacks of flat roadways, supported by towering metal pillars that took the weight quite handedly. Roahn wondered how anyone could navigate such a labyrinth in a seemingly directionless tangle—in all three dimensions, no less. Dedicated drivers here had to have some sort of sixth sense with their navigational skills, because when Roahn tried to trace her route back to her point of origin back at Battery Park, all she ended up with was a big fat blank and a nasty headache.

Thanks to this morning's battle, Roahn was currently nursing a headache right now.

The light vehicle roared onto the freeway that bordered the East River. Their route was doused in shade, what with it being on the lowest level and all and with four more levels positioned right above it. From here, Roahn was able to observe, by looking behind her and to the right, a few VerTak (atmosphere-only rated) craft hovering above the remains of what had been the spaceport and slightly over the river beyond. A stream of clear fluids wisped from hoses in these craft, condensing into a fine mist that draped the wreckage in dampness. _Radiation-dampening biologics_, Roahn guessed. The Council Defenders had enlisted local transports to spray a wealth of liquid-based enzymes over the site of the nuclear bomb blast, which would feed on the radioactive particles that were either airborne or had embedded themselves into the cells of the surrounding area. Last she had heard, there was not much contamination released from the actual bomb and that the site, an area roughly a quarter of a mile in radius, would be safe to traverse in a little less than a week. Even today, if one were to venture too closely to the blast zone, the most radiation that one would absorb would still fall well below the lethal threshold and would be quite easily treatable.

But the more she stared, fixated upon the spot where thousands of civilians had died in the blink of an eye, the more it felt like her heart was crunching glass, embedding within her very arteries as she simmered in her anger. Roahn finally had to turn away, keeping her gaze concentrated on the road ahead.

It still had not been determined which PMC—Bucephalus or Tyranno—had been responsible for utilizing such a weapon. Knowing how the ensuing investigation would fare, as it had occurred several times before under similar circumstances, Roahn surmised that no firm answers would arise from what little information could be gleaned. Tyranno and Bucephalus would either deny everything or point fingers at the other, not wanting the weight of the nuclear attacked to be pinned on either one of them. Think of the fines that would incur! In any case, Roahn grimly knew that the two PMCs were merely stooges that carried out someone else's orders, so although they had been responsible for the mass murder of innocents, the true blame lay at someone much higher on the food chain.

Roahn wanted to be there when they determined who that person was. She also wanted to have five minutes alone in a room with them with a club in her grip, but that was wishful thinking at its finest.

It took nearly an hour for the truck carrying Roahn to make it from the Financial District down at the southernmost tip of the peninsula up towards the middle, in the borough known as Midtown. Abandoned cars and more potholes littered the streets at every turn, sometimes requiring the driver to double back in order to find an alternate route. The people in this city had done their best to scatter once the threat of conflict had reared its head, but why, Roahn bemoaned, did they have to leave their cars in the middle of the damn street?

Roahn was rather antsy by the time she reached the main Defender command post out in the middle of a wide avenue, flanked by flashy department stores with sterling mannequins of human proportions behind the crystal windows. She saw that Major Rethius was already there, flagging the vehicle to slow down. Roahn hopped out of the car before the tires had finished rotating to a complete stop, itching to stretch her legs. She gave a crisp salute to the turian.

"Major, reporting as ordered."

Rethius returned the salute. "Glad to see that you made it, Lieutenant. Heard your unit took a little bit of a beating out there."

"It wasn't bad, sir," Roahn shrugged, trying to ignore the angry pulsating from the bruises on her ribs and back. She looked around for a bit, trying to spot her immediate superior officer. "Is Captain Welch here? Last I heard he was—,"

"Welch's ship got hit coming in over the bay," Rethius cut in gravely, his expression dimming a bit. "The AA guns. He never made it to the ground."

Roahn let that sink in for a moment. "Oh," was all she had to say on that.

"Indeed. But we have no time to mourn his loss. The colonel's ordered us here to look at something that one of our stealth squads found."

"'_Us?_'" Roahn clarified. "I was specifically asked for?"

"Yes, by me. The local chain of command is in temporary disarray. With Welch gone, I need to fast-track some staff. _You're_ my acting XO for now. Hope you learn quickly, Lieutenant."

"Sir," Roahn straightened a bit at that. "Yes sir!"

Rethius then gave a tilt of his head, a gesture for Roahn to follow. She entered in step alongside the turian, her head spinning again as she tried to downplay her pride at the new responsibility she had just been granted.

As they plodded down the highway, the concrete cooled from being in permanent shadow, Roahn had to dodge being run over by some of the taller and more heavily armored Defenders as they maneuvered their way through the command post. They headed past barricades, heaps of barbed wire, and guard posts. Soon, they were free from the CP's boundary entirely, to Roahn's confusion. Now, they appeared to be headed to the entrance at the base of a nondescript skyscraper, where a squad of five marines were guarding a flat black door next to a glassy rotating door. A service entrance, if Roahn had to guess.

Now she was really starting to get puzzled.

"So what exactly did the colonel say that we found?" Roahn asked.

"She didn't say," Rethius admitted. "Whether she knows the full story or not is beyond our pay grade. She just mentioned that it was worthy of additional opinions. Maybe she'll tell us more in person."

"Hmm," Roahn simply said, not all that confident at unleashing _her_ opinion just yet.

Rethius seemed to catch the insinuation and shifted his gaze over to her as they continued to walk. "You're angry about this morning." It was not a question.

Roahn was not sure as to how to answer. She did not know Rethius well enough to feel comfortable at speaking her mind in front of him—there were still repercussions that could arise from smearing the chain of command, depending on whose company one kept. However, she was vastly skilled in the art of understatement so she figured that her best shot lay somewhere in that domain.

"We lost more people than we figured fighting on the ground," she said carefully, trying to be nonchalant. "We weren't told the whole strategy that command had in mind—that we were the diversion. A lot of the soldiers are feeling frustrated, yes. Some of them seem to think that they were lied to."

"Lied to? No," Rethius shook his head, his tone still light. "Kept in the dark, yes. It was not my choice, I assure you. Believe me, I sparred with Colonel Vaniel at length about letting the incursion team onto the strategy—that although we were billed as the main invasion force we would simultaneously act as a distraction while our sister company landed closer to the perpetrators so that they could quickly remove them from power."

"These so-called perpetrators. I'm taking that they were comprised of old men inhabiting the top floors of some stuffy financial corporation?"

"Grand National Bank and First Financial—they were the ones who hired Tyranno and Bucephalus, respectively. Their boards of directors, at least, were responsible. They're in Defender custody now, headed to a nice interrogation cell back on the Citadel. The story is—and I'm hoping you won't repeat this…"

"I won't, sir," Roahn promised.

"Just checking. Anyway, the story was that Grand National and First Financial have had bad blood between them for a while now. Some kind of pissing match between the families of the founders—it doesn't really matter to us. For some reason, either one bank or the other apparently got wind that their rival was going to use a private military company to launch a primitive 'blockade' of sorts. As in, one bank would hire a PMC to start a makeshift siege of their rival's physical location, perform some minor property damage to intimidate the other, and perhaps gain in leverage by forcing a departure of shareholder confidence. After all, the terrorization of a bank tends to lead to a downturn in profitability if customers are scared away from the event. And shareholders are averse to bad quarterly statements, predictably."

"_Money_," Roahn grumbled. "It all leads back to money."

"But that's not the odd part," Rethius said. "Every member from both boards of directors is claiming the same thing: they only hired a PMC in _reaction_ to being tipped off about their rival having hired a PMC. No one is admitting performing the role of aggressor."

"Strange," Roahn murmured. "So each one hires their PMC all because of bad advice and one thing leads to another, right? Tyranno and Bucephalus, in close proximity, start battling against each other in open warfare within the second largest city on the planet and we're called in for cleanup. _Cleanup_. I just hope these bastards are put in a cell for the rest of their lives after today."

Rethius sighed regretfully. The two of them had nearly approached the guarded building at this point. "They're powerful men who work for _banks_. You do know that every one of them will most likely make bail once we're through with questioning?"

Roahn slowly blinked, her jaw clenching.

"I do. But for some stupid reason, I can't help but hope. Let me live in my fantasies for a bit."

"The galaxy's a lot drabber than we'd like to admit, Lieutenant. Despite our best efforts."

They had reached the entrance of the building at this point and ably passed by the guards—their uniforms alone was enough to rise above suspicion. Evidentially they were expected. An indigo-scaled asari with deep violet face paint markings was in the immediate room, a rather featureless location plastered with bare, gray tile, accompanied by a few subordinates under her command. Colonel Vaniel was a veteran of the Reaper Wars, but then again, it was hard to find an officer that was not. She carried herself with a steeled posture, eyes hard, mouth firm, and was notorious for not taking fools lightly.

Rethius stopped a few feet in front of Vaniel and saluted. Roahn repeated the same gesture a half-second later. "Major Rethius, reporting as ordered, Colonel."

Vaniel gave an almost indistinct nod to the turian and Roahn felt that she better make introductions as well. "Colonel, Lieutenant Roahn'She—,"

"Major," Vaniel butted in, completely cutting Roahn off. The asari had not even levelled a _glance_ at her, Roahn noticed to her intense disdain. "Apparently resistance at the park was greater than expected, I take it? Reports of the number of wounded have been disturbing, to say the least."

To his credit, Rethius did not change his expression while Roahn was itching to blurt into the colonel's face about downplaying the fact that she had sent several thousand men to what had turned out to be a _slaughterhouse_, but she held her tongue at the last second.

"The men performed their duties admirably," was the turian's diplomatic response. "The enemy managed to heavily entrench themselves sooner than intelligence had figured. Lousy timing, all in all."

"Lousy timing, indeed. We just lost almost two hundred men taking a park— an area that doesn't even take up five percent of a _square mile_—that we're going to end up giving back to the Alliance after this is all over. So much personnel and hardware for only a temporary forward position. It's a victory for us today, but no doubt moods are going to sour when they look at the length of the casualty list."

The asari pursed her lips as if she was about to take a drag of a cigarette. "At the very least, we took out a shitload of the enemy's ordinance, major. Ordinance that we can definitively say that we denied being redistributed over the black market for other PMCs to pick up. Tyranno and Bucephalus ended up taking the brunt of the damage, so that's something that the Council can spin to soften the blow. I'll be needing a full report of your KIA and wounded, major. Do try to downplay the severity of the injuries when you write it up, would you?"

"Roger that, colonel," Rethius nodded in agreement, an idle gesture. "Do we have a timeline as to when we're scheduled to evac and surrender the city back to the local authorities?"

Vaniel gave a slow blink. "I'm told that we have orders to depart Earth, along with all our personnel, before the next solar day, which I'm told will occur in approximately eight hours. Which is why I called you and everyone else here right now, to sort out this… dilemma."

Rethius' beady eyes traced the unimpressive confines of the room, finding nothing particularly noteworthy to focus on. "And how was it determined that this place was of importance?"

"Simple. We had a Council Spectre accompanying the infiltrating company in this district." Vaniel looked remarkably pleased at herself to be dispensing this information to get the desired effect in Rethius.

A tilt of his head. Flap of the mandibles. "A Spectre? With us?"

Special agents of the Citadel Council, Spectres were considered to comprise the best of the best that the galaxy had to offer. Plucked from their respective militaries, the duty of a Spectre was to preserve galactic stability by any means necessary as decreed by the Council. In exchange for their loyalty, Spectres received top of the line weapons and materials, the backing of the four councilors, and the right to conduct their business without regard to laws that would otherwise serve as roadblocks. Even though they were entrusted with such an extraordinary responsibility, Spectres rarely went rogue or mad with power. The only one in recent memory who did, a turian by the name of Saren Arterius, was put down by the first human Spectre and arguably the most famous person who had ever lived in this galaxy: Commander John Shepard.

Roahn's father.

Vaniel gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. "I can tell what you're thinking, major. Spectres aren't required to give us advanced notice if they wish to tag along to a warzone. He had his mission, we had ours. I can't give you the details of his assignment because he wouldn't deign to share them to me in the first place. All I know is that he performed a covert reconnaissance, informed me of this location to investigate, and promptly left. Probably to destabilize some other small government, murder a drug lord, or whatever. I don't give a fuck."

It was rather obvious that neither Roahn nor Rethius were going to learn much more about the background of this place simply by standing around and listening to Vaniel talk. Fortunately, the colonel soon motioned for everyone in the room to follow her deeper inside, beginning the process of satiating the slowly growing curiosity.

The room that they had been sequestered in beforehand was merely a foyer of sorts. The group, made up of five individuals in total, hustled down a steep staircase, harsh blue light fixtures presenting murky reflections off the polished tiles below their feet. Drenched in the alternating shadows and the searing illumination, the five Defenders reached the bottom of the steps where an elevator was waiting. The elevator itself looked to be sized for cargo, or a few squads of marines, so everyone was able to fit quite nicely into its confines.

Glancing sourly at the elevator interface, Vaniel muttered angrily to herself as she tried to press the lone icon on the touchglass surface. The interface beeped angrily back at the asari. Apparently one needed a certain type of authorization to access this lift.

"Stupid piece of—," Vaniel was about to say, but Roahn saw her chance and seized it.

"Here," she said as she stepped forward and knelt down by the pad. "Let me try."

It was unclear what Vaniel was thinking of Roahn at this moment, but Roahn was not at all concerned with what the colonel was occupying her thoughts with right now. There was a new project on her hands.

Roahn opened her omni-tool and engaged her universal crack program. She scanned the immediate area for local frequencies. Her menu came back with a short list. Roahn recognized most of the icons as representations of the omni-tools that belonged to the other Defenders right here in this elevator. The odd one out simply was represented as "00024aacz." That was not a Defender protocol. Logic dictated that this was the unique ID of the elevator interface—all electronics with a processing chip had to connect to a wireless network of some kind and as long as one had visibility to these networks, it was a simple affair to try and brute force one's way through.

There were a wealth of different frequency protocols that Roahn had loaded onto her tool. She only selected the ones that corresponded to human authorities and initiated the insertion of her virus.

The _exhaustive-key-search_ program immediately set to work, running through millions of possible username/password combinations every second. This particular type of virus was not one of the most efficient ways of cracking a foreign system, but there were certain parameters that could make the job take less time, for instance, if templates for certain military protocols had been loaded into the attacker's omni-tool (which they were) and if those templates were at all confirming to the most recent password standards.

In the face of Roahn's meticulous set-up, the firewalls embedded into the elevator's system had no chance at withstanding such a focused attack. The lights in the elevator's ceiling momentarily dimmed before brightening again. The touchglass panel blinked, briefly becoming distorted, before it reset, the login page now having vanished. Roahn tenderly touched the remaining icon on the screen, the one that sent the elevator to the very bottom—presumably hundreds of meters below the surface—and was rewarded by a whoosh of air and an involuntary shudder as the elevator began its descent.

Vaniel was eyeing Roahn with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue as the quarian straightened back up. Roahn smirked, unable to resist now that she had finally managed to get herself on the asari's radar.

"I don't believe that I got your name, Lieutenant?" Vaniel said as she eyed Roahn's pauldrons where her rank had been etched.

Roahn chewed her lip thoughtfully, not exactly anticipating the asari's reaction, but proceeded regardless.

"Lieutenant Roahn'Shepard, Colonel," she stated in an almost conversational manner, but the tensed look in her eyes betrayed her deliberate intent.

The mere mention of the name caused Vaniel's eyes to clearly widen, as well as draw out other noticeable reactions from the rest of the officers around her, sans Rethius who was already aware. "I wasn't informed that you had been assigned under my command, Lieutenant," Vaniel said after recovering quickly. Roahn had to admire the professionalism that the colonel displayed as most people would have been left gaping or stammering for a good minute as they helplessly tried to process the potentially planet-shattering fact of having the daughter of the legendary hero in their midst.

"I was not aware that my presence had to be broadcasted behind my back, colonel," Roahn replied back coolly, although the sharpness of her words was pushing her luck.

"Hmm," was all Vaniel was able to come up with in response as she narrowed her eyes and turned away, indicating that this conversation had reached its close.

As the elevator continued to surge downward, Roahn edged to the back of the interior, her once smug expression slowly dissolving into a smoldering glare. It was noble to imagine that Vaniel's initial indifference to her presence had solely been the issue of their vast difference in rank, but Roahn was nearly dead-certain that the colonel's initial dismissive attitude followed by their startled reaction to her respected parentage, revealed the true problem that lay embedded below the surface.

Vaniel had been indifferent to Roahn all because she was a quarian.

Racism. That had to be the reason, Roahn figured. Despite the meritocracy of the Defenders proclaiming itself to be promoting inclusivity and a strong sense of unity, Roahn knew that it was easy for the Council to spew a series of loving words rather than enforce the actions to give them steel. Talking was easier, not to mention cheaper, than an effortful push for everyone to give up their biases and reset their prejudiced mindsets.

This state of the Defenders never failed to aggrieve Roahn heavily. When several disparate races were crudely shoved together and forced to conform to the same dictated military program, it should have been obvious that the entire foundation holding the group up was terribly unstable. Several issues had already plagued the Defenders that Roahn knew could have been easily avoided. Everyone was required to complete the same series of mandated classwork, even though the asari had an edge in retaining vast amounts of knowledge due to their natural longevity. Defender qualifications also were comprised of accomplishing the exact same physical training, despite the fact that many of the assigned courses were far more facilitating to humans or turians than they were to quarians. On and on it went, a never-ending merry-go-round of the same fruitless attempts to try to stick square pegs into round holes. But this was a no-win scenario for the Defenders, Roahn had to argue. Either they foolishly stick to their generic set of qualifications in an attempt to be inclusive but allow for incompetence later on, or restrict their entry requirements to individuals meeting a specific set of criteria but take a severe hit to their troop strength in the process by turning more people away.

Then there was the problem in trying to get everyone to cooperate to some extent and to put aside their natural differences in order to maintain a relationship as fighting comrades. This had been a moot point during the Reaper War, as there was no use in trying to be prejudiced when death could seemingly arrive at any moment. With their backs to the wall, every being in the galaxy could easily set aside any enmity in favor of cooperation. One could say the results had been more than satisfactory. But without a war to bind everyone together, the motivation to perform as a unit simply was lacking.

Strangely, the humans and the turians usually got along the best within the Defender ranks—even though they had been fierce rivals many decades ago, fueled by the tension and the memories of their brief border conflicts, the two races were usually pretty quick to admit that feuding was pointless if they were going to be fighting on the same side, becoming brothers-in-arms very rapidly in the process. The asari, on the other hand, were the worst at adjusting. For a species that had the ability to live well over a thousand years, the mindset of the asari race was measured in centuries, making their adjustments to the new social paradigm unbearably slow. Stuck-up, xenophobic, and isolated to a fault, the asari constantly had trouble incorporating themselves in a squad when it was made up of different races. Hell, they probably still figured that Roahn, like all quarians, was nothing but a nuisance, as though as they believed that the quarian race were still spacebound nomads, doomed to drift the cosmos for an eternity and therefore still occupying the status of vagabonds in all of their heads. Roahn deeply resented the insinuation, seeing as her people had recaptured their homeworld from the geth and had created cities upon it before she had ever been born, but in the eyes of the asari, it was almost as if that momentous occasion had barely begun to register with them.

She had a trump card though. A magic word that never failed to bestow her with the attention and respect that she felt she deserved. Two syllables voiced from her mouth and there would be that rapid shift in demeanor amongst all within earshot.

The only problem was, she hated to use the word as a tactical weapon. It felt like it was below her to abuse such a thing. It was only tying her to a larger-than-life personality, one whose shadow she knew she would be under for the rest of her life.

All she had to do was say her name.

_Keelah_, her damn name.

Shepard.

The name of a hero.

It had the uncanny ability to inspire both awe in dread in people, depended on whom it was uttered to. Roahn's father had turned her surname into legend due to his exploits around the galaxy as both a Spectre and as an icon. It could be easily argued that his efforts alone had resulted in the galaxy's victory against the invading Reaper forces, though her father would be loath to admit such a thing. Modest to the last, he never failed to give his team equal credit at every opportunity, preferring that his image not be deified beyond recognition.

Roahn loved her father, though he was a complicated man. There had been a few spats between them over the years, mostly due to Shepard initially fumbling at his parental duties when Roahn had been young, but the both of them had eventually found a way to understand each other, finding a special bond in the process. She was proud to be the daughter of a hero, but she slightly resented the fact that people never failed to treat her differently once her heritage became apparent. She could be just a lowly quarian in one person's eyes at one moment… and then damn near royalty in the next second once the full weight of her last name resonated. Puzzlement, understanding, and then surprise would pass across their face, all in that order. Roahn had seen such an emotional chain of events transpire too many times for her to count. Lucky her visor was translucent otherwise everyone would have been able to see her grimace each time she was ridiculously pandered to.

If people were not being so transparently obvious with how quickly they would submit themselves as receptive to her opinion, then Roahn would not have had a problem with it. But the association did nothing but annoy Roahn. Was not the whole point of setting out on her own a decision to reinforce her merit? She did not want to coast by life from her father's name alone. Life was not presenting itself realistically if it was just going to hand everything to her. Roahn would make sure to bite that hand at any turn, its gifts unwanted and unasked for.

A soft chime emitted from the elevator's speakers. Ground floor, coming up.

"Ready weapons," Vaniel uttered as she drew her pistol. Roahn and everyone else complied. None of them had any idea as to what to expect. This was simply caution for caution's sake.

Finally, the elevator deposited the group into another short hallway similarly illuminated like the last one they had just traveled through. Another door made out of the same cloudy glass, eight meters away, beckoned. The biggest difference this time was a small insignia, etched in stone, that sat pronounced right over the doorway. Two stamped wings coming together to form an "A" shape, with a little representation of Earth nestled between the two.

"Alliance building," Roahn said. "An outpost in an otherwise unmarked building. Strange."

"Not strange at all," Vaniel replied. "An under-the-radar location plus this whole secret getup? We've got ourselves a black site here. Be ready for anything once we get through that door."

Unacknowledged military locations—or black sites—were not uncommon concepts singular to one race alone. Each military was jealous in guarding their own secrets and would go to any length to preserve them at all costs. Thus, bases such as this one were natural choices in which to base black operations or projects that would otherwise be a little more morally ambiguous than the normal threshold.

No one in the group right now was particularly surprised that they had stumbled upon one of these sites belonging to the Alliance. If anything, it only made them more intrigued to see what secrets it held.

The door had no annoying security systems to prevent them from going any further. It merely parted with a whisper as Vaniel and everyone else approached.

Giving them all the moment to behold a massacre.

"Jesus," one of the captains muttered.

"Goddess," Vaniel breathed in agreement.

Tenderly, they all crossed the boundary into the room. Everything was tomb silent. The floors were black marble. Walls were fields of glass, colored a deep aquarium-blue. But a dark shimmer lapped up the light, warbling it away with tiny ripples. Pools. Streaks. Thick, dark liquid.

Blood.

And… the bodies...

About twenty-five in total. Humans in Alliance armor—not Defender. All in varying states of death. Gruesome and painful. The suffering here had to have been monumental. Roahn slowly panned her head to observe the totality of the destruction within the room, each of the bodies slowly distorting their way across her face in the reflections.

A cluster of three men lay on an adjacent staircase, their innards ripped completely open, leaving their guts to spill down the stairs. Some had been torn completely in half, the shattered remains of their spinal columns poking from the mass of red and ragged flesh.

Two more bodies were at the foot of the steps, curled in their final throes. Their skin, or what remained of it, had been blackened and burned from a fire, as if a flamethrower had been set upon them. Their flesh now dark, flaky, and glass-like, there was little to distinguish them as human anymore, let alone if they had ever lived to begin with.

In the middle of the room, just the torso of a human—sans all of his limbs and his head—remained. The torso itself was still armored in dark blue Alliance colors, but every other extremity had simply vanished. Like he had received a massive hug around his waist, causing each and every limb to simply… explode in a spectacular fashion. Judging from the massive amounts of blood and gore displayed in a starfish pattern from the torso, it was quite odd to come up with another alternative that seemed remotely plausible.

A smattering of other Alliance soldiers—men and women—lay draped on the floor, limp. Strangely, they did not look that they had been as grievously injured as their other compatriots. Roahn walked over to the nearest body to turn it over, only to recoil when she quickly noticed that the body was lacking a head.

"Oh… oh… fuck," Roahn nearly gagged.

The head had rolled a few feet away, mercifully still encased inside a helmet. Judging from the shape of the chestplate, this particular soldier had been a woman. Roahn's hand trembled as she held it above the body, fighting to quell her rising disgust as well to prevent her mind from cycling through all the possible people that could bear to carry out such a horrific mutilation. Judging by the roughened sawing marks on the stump of the neck (Roahn glanced at the wound as long as she dared before she could feel her stomach give a queasy heave) this soldier had been deliberately decapitated by a knife. Slowly. Painfully.

Roahn hoped the woman had not been alive when it had happened. Sadly, her cynical side told her that she would only be lying to herself if she believed such a thing. The soldier's death had not come quickly.

"Hey," she heard Rethius call out to the group. "Something's odd with this body."

Responding to the major, the group congregated around the poor individual that the turian had been referring to. As soon as Roahn arrived, she was already bracing herself for the worst carnage to be seen inside this room, but she fell quiet once she saw the body. She was about to ask Rethius as to why he found this particular body so interesting, but Roahn realized the simple truth that the major had realized before everyone else.

There was definitely a stark difference with this body.

Aside from being dead, the man at their feet had no fatal wounds. No brutal gashes, no dismemberment or other forms of physical abuse. Exterior-wise the body was pristine. Not even any gunshot wounds could be perceived.

The soldier was still very much dead, however. His face was completely caked with blood, his nostrils having clogged long ago as they had emptied out his precious fluids. His eyes also leaked tears of blood, the entirety of the previously white sclera now bright crimson. Blood had trickled from his ears and mouth as well, giving Roahn the suspicion that there were most certainly other orifices that had acted as a drain to this man's life.

"Pretty high-ranking guy," Rethius muttered as he ever so lightly nudged the body with the boot, pointing everyone's attention to the insignia on the chestplate. "The black site's commanding officer, I reckon? A colonel."

"They wouldn't post a colonel here unless this place had some importance," Vaniel scowled before she turned to the captains flanking her. "Check out the place. Tell me what you find."

As the two captains departed, Roahn was now left alone with Rethius and Vaniel. "Hell of a way to go," Rethius said dryly as he continued to stare dispassionately at the body. "Guy looks like he bled out of every opening."

"With no visible wounds of any kind," Roahn noted out loud as she swept her omni-tool over the corpse, confirming what her eyes saw.

"Yet the rest of his comrades died in a much brutal fashion?" Vaniel arced what constituted for an eyebrow on the asari. "I'm not buying it. Why was everyone else ripped apart and this guy left in such a pristine state?"

"Pristine may be too kind of a word to describe it," Rethius grumbled. "He doesn't look like he died peacefully. In fact, from the blood leakage, I'd say he had a massive hemorrhage on the spot. A stroke, perhaps?"

"If it was a stroke, it's certainly coincidental timing," Vaniel said. "But you're right. Something happened to this guy internally that made him collapse in this state."

Roahn looked back and forth from her superiors, trying to gauge her options. "Think it might be drugs?" she offered. "Maybe he was injected with something to mimic the effects of a heart attack?"

The asari chewed her lip thoughtfully as she looked down, realizing that she had accidentally treaded into the pool of blood. She edged her foot away, leaving behind a dark smear on the tile. "We'll need a lab kit to confirm the details. An autopsy will also confirm the cause of death, but there's no way the Alliance will let us out of here with the body. Shit, I don't even think they would want us in here in the first place. If they even knew—,"

"Colonel!" both of the Defender captains stepped around a nearby corner. "We're going to need you for this!"

Vaniel whipped around, her eyes narrowing. "What did you find?"

"A vault, ma'am. And a survivor."

Now everyone's eyes widened in tandem at the news. Without wasting another word, the group followed the hustling captain, journeying only a short while as they only had to navigate two turns before they reached the room he had been referring to.

An opening, perfectly circular, tempted the group by offering warm light inside. A massive door, made out of starship steel, swung outward on a singular but gigantic hinge. Looking closely, Roahn could see the metallic outlines of thick pins embedded within the depth of the door itself—the locking mechanism that sealed this place up. It was indeed a vault.

But the door was not the only part. Crossing the boundary that separated the vault from the hallway, Roahn saw that several tiny sensors had been place upon the walls, flanking the entrance on both sides of the door. Biometric sensors, most likely, to keep tabs on the individuals that entered and exited the vault. These sensors, however, were smashed to pieces, with trace amounts of glass dust scattered over the floor in front of where they were perched. The door itself did not show any scratches upon its face or any other signs of obvious tampering—a state contrary to the sensors. Someone had broken into here, but had been skilled enough to do so without having had to completely level the building.

Roahn heard the heels of her boots delicately clack upon the ground hollowly, the echoes carrying around the concrete box with a very wet vibration. She edged around the Defenders that were blocking her view to try to see exactly what was in this place that had been worth committing several atrocities to get.

Only for her interest to go un-piqued as only an empty wheeled cart sat pathetically in the center of the room, offering up nothing to observe.

"I guess now we know why this place was raided," Rethius' face was now grim, deadest.

"The next thing to find out is," Roahn said, her words feeling slow in her mouth, "what did the robbers take from here?"

"Obviously it was something worth killing for," Rethius gave a backwards glance towards the way they had come in. "Money? Files? Who can tell?"

Roahn rotated her body to appraise every corner of the room. "I don't think it was money. This vault isn't built like those you'd find in a bank. You would see rows and rows of locked safe deposit boxes on the walls if that were the case. Instead, we only have a cart. This vault was most likely built to keep safe one thing and only that one thing."

"It's just that we have no clue as to what that thing might be."

"This was no ordinary black site. They built this place just to hide this vault. But someone found it anyway and emptied it of its contents. We need to start to think of what the Alliance could possibly have had possession of that they felt that keeping such a thing so far out of sight was a good idea."

"We'll deal with that later," Rethius waved off as he gestured for Roahn to follow where Vaniel was kneeling in the corner. "The survivor next."

Roahn wheeled around and discovered, to her surprise, that she had completely missed the sixth individual that had been huddling in the corner of the vault this whole time. Curled up in a fetal position, Roahn saw a human shaking while pressed deeply into the recess the edge provided. Vaniel knelt beside the human as she procured a cloth to scour the man's face partially clean—he was soaked head to toe in the blood of his friends, some of it having congealed in chunks over his skin. He must have been standing in the middle of the carnage when he got hit with the tidal wave of blood. Physically, Roahn observed that the man was fine, but that he was terrified out of his wits, clearly traumatized after bearing witness to the gory sight in just the next room.

After wiping the man's face some more, Vaniel stowed the cloth, now soaked completely through. The human, an Alliance guard, was young. Patchy beard, thin face, with distant eyes, a partially-open mouth, and hyperventilating all the while. His arms drew his knees to his chest, fingers completely locked together. Shivering intensely, Roahn wondered how badly the man had been frightened to go into such conniptions.

_What happened to this man? What did he see?_

Vaniel had the same idea, her steel-blue eyes now fixated upon the frightened man's features. "Slow yourself. Relax. There's no one here to hurt you. I want to know… who did this to you, soldier?"

The survivor continued to shake, apparently not hearing her words.

"Speak," Vaniel tried again. "What was in that vault? Who attacked you?"

Now the lips of the human quivered, trying to form words. Everyone in the vicinity drew a little closer to listen clearly.

"_N-... N-… N-N-N-Not… not… not… human…"_

"That's good," Vaniel encouraged. "Yes, that's fine. So, they weren't human. Which PMC outfit did they belong to? Tyranno? Bucephalus?"

"_No… no. Not… military. Not… an army. F-Four… there were four… of them_."

"Four? Only four individuals? What did you see? Can you describe them?"

"_They… they… they…"_ the man hopelessly stammered, _"…they killed… everyone. We didn't… didn't even know… that we were being attacked. The elevator just opened… and there they were. It was so fast. They… said… nothing. They just… killed."_

Vaniel looked like she wanted to speak some more, but the shivering soldier took a painful swallow, lips quivering._ "Then… then he arrived._"

"Who? Who? Speak, soldier. Who was it?"

"_The monster_," the soldier whimpered as his eyes frantically tried to lock onto the asari's. His pupils widened and drool began to dribble from the corners of his mouth in his fear. "_Tall. He was so… tall. And that helmet. Silver. Round. The… the monster_."

Vaniel abruptly stood back up, her face trying to settle back to neutral but it was plain to see that she was trying to downplay her disappointment.

"He's in shock. Don't know for how long. We're not going to get anything out of him at this rate. We should at least egress out of this place, bring this man to the nearest infirmary, and wait to discuss his situation once he's calmed—,"

"You'll do no such thing," a soft voice slashed through the shadows.

Everyone turned as a cadre of heavily armored Alliance marines kneeling in a firing formation at the vault's entrance. For a brief instant, nothing could be heard except the clicking sounds of assault rifles being primed to fire on full-auto. The Defenders froze, caught off guard so quickly that none of them even thought to reach for a weapon, a movement that might have ended up saving all their lives.

The Alliance soldiers aimed down their sights, but nothing happened.

Then a thin man, similarly armored except he was sans his helmet, stepped forth. He had a cruel smirk upon his face and a distinct swagger to his gait. The sort of gait that only accompanied a person when they were absolutely confident in their current standing. Roahn managed to spy the rank of colonel on this man's breastplate. Same rank as Vaniel. And as the man dead on the floor, the one with all of his liquids emptied. She still felt dread begin to pool in the pit of her stomach, though.

But the Alliance colonel held up a hand to his men and they all lowered their weapons on command. Roahn did not unclench herself from concern, finding that she could not afford to leave its embrace so soon.

"Defenders," the colonel then spoke to all five individuals, "I have my duty to verbally inform you that you have trespassed into a restricted area as dictated by the Alliance Command. Clear out now or we'll be forced to take all of you into custody."

Vaniel glowered as she stepped forward to level a finger at the man, but even Roahn realized that the gesture was all bluster. They had no position to stand upon right now.

"Colonel," Vaniel said, "we cannot abandon this location. Not when we have this man—," she gestured to the still-whimpering survivor, "—to look after. I humbly request—"

"—Whatever you think you can get out of me," the colonel interrupted, his smile never wavering "I'm going to emphatically deny. As for the survivor, he is in _our_ care now. Last I checked, he has Alliance colors on, _not_ Defender. He's not going anywhere with you, and if you continue to try to press your luck, I should let you know that I do have the authority to make sure you don't ever leave this building."

Vaniel snorted as she took a defiant step forward. "And who granted you that authority in the first place, colonel? Do _they_ have an interest in this place? It sure appears that someone did, judging from the chaos they brought. What were you hiding here? If this is going to come back to bite us in the ass later on, I'd think that giving us at least a clue would go a long way, don't you think?"

The human colonel's smile broadened, all teeth. "I can assure you that whatever you think we might have had in this place, it is not as interesting nor as threatening as you would think. But even if I knew what was here, I wouldn't tell you. But I can say, with confidence, that it wasn't a Prothean beacon, _asari_."

The man spoke the name of Vaniel's race with such impudence that it was clearly meant to be an insult. Everyone in the room got the reference, as evidenced by the combination of guilty and withering looks being shared amongst the group. During the war, the asari had been discovered hiding valuable research for themselves for centuries—a Prothean beacon in particular—that ended up acting as a crucial hamper towards progress against defeating the Reapers. It had been a monumental betrayal of the tenets that the asari themselves had put down as sacrosanct laws for all Council races to follow. The asari had never fully been forgiven for that transgression after it had been made public around a decade ago and the human colonel was clearly exploiting that slight against Vaniel.

"We still have the capability to learn from our mistakes, colonel," Vaniel growled.

"Forgive me if I require more than words to be assuaged. Right now our orders is what separates our current level of understanding from each other. Need-to-know basis, you get the drill. We've all got our bosses to deal with. You've got the Council. Admiral Huston just happens to be at the end of my line. And in this city, _his_ authority reigns."

Huston. The name struck a chord with Roahn. He was the newest admiral to lead the legendary Alliance Fifth Fleet, once based at Arcturus Station, now out of Berlin. The colonel certainly had an impressive web of contacts, one that would prove to be an insurmountable for the Defenders to handle.

Vaniel was not quite done yet. "Defender occupation is still in effect. The city has just been witness to a major military campaign, colonel. By Article 13-3 of the Council Charter—"

"That charter is only valid if the previous sovereign force had abandoned any territory in contention during a time of conflict," the colonel corrected. "Which the Alliance has not. You arrived on the scene before we did, and we most assuredly had no forces stationed here in the first place so we couldn't have retreated from any position if we were not there at all. Don't waste any more of my time, colonel. I could have had all of you disposed of right here and now and wouldn't face any repercussions of which to fear. I've extended to you all the common courtesy I have to offer. So I will now demonstrate this last gesture of civility: get the _fuck_ out of this building, leave this planet, or you'll cause the Council to be burned with so many sanctions that you will wish that you had died as a child."

Vaniel's shoulders minutely slumped in defeat. Roahn knew that the battle had been lost before it had ever truly begun. They had been dealt a terrible hand here and while they could not simply fold before attempting to mount a defense, paltry as it was, Roahn had to admit that the actual attempt at staying in the game was embarrassing. When Vaniel straightened her posture and began to depart, that was the cue that Roahn took to follow. She made sure to not make eye contact with any of the armored soldiers as she passed them by, not wanting to risk giving any of them the barest shred of satisfaction as she bent in their breeze.

But as they traveled the halls and crossed the final room to the elevator, Roahn could not resist taking one final look back, her eyes glimpsing a mystery that would most likely forever remain unsolved for her.

As the doors shut on the Defenders, Roahn could only think through all the possibilities as to what the vault had contained that had been worth killing over.

Expending that train of thought, she soon dreamt of monsters.

* * *

Hours later, Roahn soon found herself staring at the curvature of the Earth, on board one of the Defender's many frigates after finally having evacuated the confines of the planet, along with the rest of their ordinance. The Defenders were done here. All they had to do now was wait for a new quarry.

Such was the Defender lifestyle.

Words always failed Roahn whenever she looked upon a world from space. She loved to stand in front of the gigantic picture windows, safe behind a transparent barrier a couple of feet thick, and watch the land lazily rotate beneath her. Her ship was now over the barren continent of Antarctica, she recalled from her father's lessons. Bald and white, a brutal plain of snow and ice spread across a flat sheet around the base of the sphere. If Roahn had a magneto-glass on her, she might just be able to spot subtle signs of life that freckled the wasteland down there. Such raw beauty in nature. So much different than staring upon the tangled gray web of a city. Roahn would rather stare at ragged mountain ranges or scorching desert seas for hours than gaze upon another concrete and steel scar.

Realization soon flooded back to her and Roahn quickly felt her mind clear as she remembered why she was in this room in the first place. A timer above the only door slowly ticked down from sixty minutes. Already she had wasted five of those minutes by planet-gazing.

The frigate she was on was just one of several repurposed by the Council Defenders—a donation, in plain speak, from the turians to aid in their mandate. Everything the Defenders used was secondhand, from the ships, to the weapons they used on the field. They were not an army dedicated solely to one world and one world only—they were supposed to be the conglomerated might of the galaxy's full force. However, when the Defenders had been incorporated, they did not have the luxury that the other races had by being able to procure new weapons contracts or fulfill cruiser orders so easily. Outfits like the Alliance and the Hierarchy had several dedicated manufacturers that provided weapons specific to their races alone. The Defenders had none of that kind of infrastructure in place, which really put a hamper on their maximum effectiveness as a unit.

Jack of all trades. Master of none.

Roahn was not concentrating about the macro problems that were seeping down and plaguing her own existence at this point in time. There were more personal issues to deal with at the moment. The room she was in right now was one of the frigate's several "clean rooms" that had been installed within it. These rooms had been added to benefit the quarian members of the Defenders, as they did require usage of safe areas so that they could exit from the safety of their enviro-suits, for exclusive reasons privy to their race. The rooms had a time limit on them to delegate usage effectively—an hour block was usually all the time that one needed to complete their business anyway.

Roahn now had fifty-five minutes left, but she was confident that she could accomplish her tasks well before her time expired.

She breathed in a little too deeply and Roahn winced as something flared up near her ribs. Well, she was in this room to take care of that anyway. Might as well see what was in store for her.

The clean room had three rows of pristine white benches arranged in the middle—the place was about as large as an average-sized locker room, so there was plenty of space to maneuver. Along the walls were bolted several comprehensive medical kits. Roahn grabbed one of these, along with a hygienic tray replete with rags and a spray bottle filled with water, and set them both on one of the benches before she took a seat.

Then, she set to work.

First Roahn repeated the exact same process she had just gone through down on Earth to remove her _sehni_. Two minutes for that task to become completely accomplished. She set the fabric reverently down on the right side of her body on the bench, giving it a tender pat for emphasis. Then she fiddled with a few of the locks and seals surrounding her arms, twisting a radial dial that ran around her forearm and hearing a faint hiss in response. This was all preparation to get her accumulated to the environment. The pressure in Roahn's suit equalized and a tiny ping emitted inside her helmet. Green lights across the board.

The quarian slowly took in a deep breath and held it while she navigated her fingers to the visor seals near the base of her jaw. She depressed the two buttons there simultaneously and heard a tactile click. The visor dipped a millimeter. Roahn then took her hands, gently wrapped them around the metallic crevasse, and lifted the visor from her face.

A few more critical button depressions and soon Roahn's entire helmet apparatus was dangling at collar-height, completely exposing her head.

Roahn inhaled.

It had not been too long since she had last breathed the air without a mask in the way. Three weeks, by her recollection. Yet each time she ventured outside the first breath felt like the moment of rebirth. The air, cold and thick, filled her lungs, slamming her tongue with its taste. Her nostrils flared as the previously muted scents exploded into pungent wafts both sharp and sensitive. Roahn closed her eyes and allowed herself to breathe deeply, without fear, and to let the world surround her in its sensitivity.

For a couple more minutes, Roahn sat with her hands folded over her lap as she acclimated herself more and more to the enhanced sensations. A tiny smile came to her face. This was nothing particularly new to her, nor to most quarians these days. After several decades from when their homeworld had been reclaimed, the scientific prowess of the quarians, now firmly stable upon their wondrous ground, had been amplified tenfold. The fields of medicine and bioengineering had been new areas where the quarians had managed to sink their teeth into and had reaped great rewards as a result. With more and more attention being given to the previously niche field of quarian anatomy, the quarians were able to make great strides in their research from the new technology and the larger budgets that they now had access to.

About twelve years ago, a new treatment series had been released to the quarian public, inspired by the geth's previous progress in disease prevention. A series of injections, delivered over three months, introduced genetically engineered enzymes into a quarian's body. These enzymes, known as Cas9 molecules, were designed to edit genomes by both cutting and pasting strands of DNA—a sort of molecular "editor." Quarians had long ago identified which particular gene they possessed was the one responsible for their weak immune systems, and with Cas9, they now had the ability to alter their sensitivity to the open galaxy and to one day not be confined to their enviro-suits any more.

Cas9 research was still not yet complete, however. The current treatment did not act as a miracle drug for all quarians—they could still become seriously ill if they were to carelessly remove their helmet and walk around a contaminated area without a filter to block the harmful particulates—such as in the middle of a wild forest or smack-dab in a Citadel avenue. Right now, the treatment merely acted as an advanced immune system booster—quarians still had the ability to die from open-air exposure, but for more minor snags like an errant suit breach or a brief foray out into a room that was reasonably clean (to an extent) a quarian would have no trouble surviving such an event. They probably would not even show a reaction, if anything.

Roahn then reached over and picked up her visor from where she had initially set it next to her. She turned the vivid blue covering over a few times, catching spare glimpses of her reflection upon the sleek surface. Those fleeting images were enough to satisfy and Roahn set the visor back down again, pondering and producing her own mental image of herself within her head. Even though there was a mirror over in the corner, Roahn did not head over to it. She knew all that she needed to about her appearance.

She was perhaps the least objective judge of her own appearance, but Roahn's own modest assessment was that she, at twenty-six years of age, maintained a particularly striking visage. Her skin was the thick gray color of basalt, milky hues occasionally awash with darker streaks that gave her face an extra dimensionality. Two thin black markings ran from the inner corners of her eyebrows up and beyond her hairline—natural quarian coloration. The sclera of her eyes was entirely black, but her irises, noticeably larger than a human's and delicately colored a fish egg green, nearly blotted the darkness out. The irises themselves coated her pupil entirely, making the opening appear translucent, but they refracted light in such a way that they appeared to glow a mercury silver through the thick confines of her visor.

Delicate-looking facial features. Thin lips. Ears ridged from the back. Vibrancy in her stare. But her eyes spoke of a tender tiredness, hinted at turbulent life. Not many people had ever seen her unmasked before—back at her home on Rannoch, she tried to live her life without a visor for as long as possible. Her father always seemed to light up upon looking at her in such a complete fashion. Roahn had always felt a grateful surge as well from those moments.

Roahn yawned, showing a set of straight teeth. She felt woozy. Most likely she was still suffering from an adrenaline comedown after today. Her little foray into unconsciousness not counting, she still had not received a particularly good night's rest.

She did not let her fatigue dissuade her just yet. She still had work to do.

Done with her brief introspection, Roahn began the process of unlocking more and more parts of her suit, her fingers deftly priming hidden snaps and twists that allowed the flexible material to no longer keep an airtight seal against her skin. The main controls to unlock her suit had been hidden in her omni-tool. A few button presses and soon the entire thing sagged against her shoulders, the locking clamps having opened. Roahn shrugged the enviro-suit off until half of it was hanging in a limp heap around her hips. She took this moment to stretch her arms, savoring the feeling of not having a suit restrict her movements. She was appreciative of the safety that it provided but one had to admit that it did hamper her existence in many other ways.

Now Roahn was able to see some of the new wounds she had garnered while on the battlefield. Her enviro-suit was designed to disperse medi-gel to any new cut, bruise, or laceration, but the technology was still not completely accurate to get every area accordingly. Roahn was not sure if it was a software issue or just a design flaw in the enviro-suit, but every once in a while she would have to do a manual appraisal of her injuries and make an accounting with her own eyes instead of relying on her life support software to supposedly tell her where and how she had been hurt.

From the med kit, Roahn produced a medi-gel spray. She used this on a nasty gash she had accumulated on her ribs—she had probably accumulated this when she had been thrown against the building from that nuclear blast. Blood had trickled down her side and dried in a thin stream. She wiped the wound clear with a sterile cloth before spraying the medi-gel onto it. There was a brief stinging as the bioabsorbable compound impacted with the exposed nerve endings. Nanoscale molecules made up of organic materials would be rushing into her body and staving off what contaminants had managed to infect her body.

There were more cuts on that side of her body—Roahn disinfected and sprayed them all in turn. On her hip, across her stomach, below her breast—a bunch had marred her skin from just that one campaign alone. In a few days, they would cease to exist as the medi-gel did its work. There probably would not be any scars left.

Still unclothed from the waist-up, Roahn then took a moment to treat a few bruises she had found on her shoulders before she placed the medi-gel away. Once that was finished, she pulled over the hygienic kit and unraveled a few microfiber swabs. These she used (with the addition of some water) to give her _sehni_, visor, helmet, and her other trappings a firm scrubbing. Soon Roahn had accumulated a pile of dirtied cloths, stained with the grit and grime of New York and the blood of the people she had killed there. Roahn tried not to think about that battle as she cleaned. She hummed a tune to distract her mind while she worked, her voice dying nearly instantly as the room swallowed up the noise.

Soon, Roahn had her suit completely scoured—tarnish-free—and began working to zip herself up back in it again. A few biodegradable bandages had been placed onto a few cuts on the quarian's side that were still weeping, adhered tightly to the skin there. Lethargic, Roahn winced as cricks in her back and neck twinged as she slid her arms through the suit and tightened it up near the collar. Deep tissue injuries, she made a note. Might have to visit the infirmary for that later.

As Roahn was putting on the finishing touches by having her suit automatically lock and seal itself, her omni-tool pinged. It was Major Rethius and he wanted to see her in his office. Reason unknown. Frowning, Roahn traced her jawline with her finger right before she placed the back half of her helmet over her head. Vacuum seals pulled her dark hair into one of the connecting tubes, keeping it off her face. She then took a longing final breath as she took her visor and placed it over her face until she heard a series of tiny clicks.

Good seal.

The next huff of breath sounded synthesized through her filter. A familiar sound, though Roahn could not help but grit her teeth at her necessary link to the suit. One day, she figured, one day she just might be able to part with it for good.

But not today.

Not even soon.

Placing the used medkits onto the counter and giving herself a final once-over for any leakage in her suit, Roahn pronounced herself ready to go, already steeling herself for her meeting with Rethius.

* * *

Roahn's route to Rethius' office took her past the med-bay of the frigate. It was only a short jaunt over to the major's room and Roahn had some time to spare, so she spent a few minutes standing at the glass windows of the recovery bay, watching the medics treat the soldiers there. Most of the men and women lying on the beds were resting, finally allowed some R&R after New York City. It was the least they deserved after their sacrifice, though they all would have wished that it was under more pleasant circumstances.

Burns, amputated limbs, scarred skin. The list of injuries ran long. Roahn let her eyes linger on one bloody patient to another as she stood on the other side of the partition, hands folded behind her back. Her chest felt heavy as she noted pain on everyone's face. She hurt with them all. Many of them had been under her command, but she had not learned all of their names. They came and went by too quickly for some of them to even register. Such was the ways of war when an errant bullet could take life in the blink of an eye, before the blow could even register.

One soldier, suspended in midair above his bed, prostrate, thanks to an anti-grav lift, noticed her standing at the window and limply lifted an arm in greeting. Roahn hesitantly repeated the gesture, trying not to let the fact register that nearly the man's entire body was covered in second-degree burns. His skin was wet and shiny, covered in blisters, and colored a fire red. He must have been on some pretty heavy painkillers otherwise he would have been screaming in pain, Roahn figured.

It took a monumental effort to tear herself away from the sight, but when she finally fixated her stare away from the wounded, an invisible weight lifted from her chest. She could breathe again.

Roahn resumed navigating the sprawling corridors, dodging fellow Defender officers, before she finally found herself in front of Rethius' door. She smartly rapped upon the blank face and two seconds later the door soundlessly parted, an invitation for her to enter.

Rethius was sitting at his desk, a tablet in hand, while the backdrop of Earth and the stars beyond threw in an additional barrier of light. He waved Roahn to take the seat on the other side of his desk.

"Lieutenant," he said in introduction after the datapad was set down upon the desk. "Come on in. I was just finishing up on looking through your jacket."

"Oh, is that right, sir?" Roahn said as she took her seat, unsure what to make of the insinuation.

"Merely wanted to get to know the people under my command a little more. I know that we haven't interacted with each other a whole lot before today, and that was entirely by design. Most of your communication with the higher ups came from your Captain Welch. Immediate superiors, and so forth. And now that he's dead, along with many others, I've been put in the position of rearranging the command structure of our company to compensate."

"An unenviable position, I take it?"

"Decidedly so. But it has opened doors to other opportunities."

"Good ones or bad?"

"Both," Rethius shrugged. "Only now have I received the opportunity to learn more about the people that I have to count on. I've got a whole laundry list of dossiers on my station, just waiting to be opened. But I started looking at you in detail first out of everyone else, Roahn. Partly because I still fully intend to have you be my XO, and also because of—,"

"My name," Roahn finished, almost with a slight drawl of disinterest at the end. "I would be surprised if it was for another reason."

Rethius looked almost sheepish. "It _is_ an item that necessitates attention, yes."

Roahn's eyes narrowed as she firmly tapped her fingers on the desk in an expectant manner.

"You know, I made it clear that, when I signed on, I would not be subject to favorable discrimination because of the fact that I am Shepard's daughter. This was the arrangement that I specifically made with him—,"

"And this is not like that at all," Rethius defended earnestly. "Simply an observation on my end. All entirely on my own volition." He gave a guilty look before shifting into a more proper posture. "How have you been holding up since this morning?"

"After having to go through a bloody campaign and withstand the effects of a nuclear shockwave, I should be in a mental ward by now, but can we back up a bit?" Roahn said in rapid-fire fashion as she leaned forward, squinting her eyes as she did so while she made a circular motion with her hand. "Is my heritage really that much of an interest to everyone in this outfit? Do I still have to prove something to someone?"

Rethius now shifted his attention back to the datapad as he tapped a finger upon it. "The way I see it, you've already proved everything that you need to prove, Lieutenant. Your record alone is testament to that. You had a mixed education, from the quarian academies on Rannoch and the University of Texas on Earth. Double majored in Architecture and Civil Engineering. Graduated in the top five percent of your class—most impressive. You enlisted with the Defenders right out of school, it says. Made it all the way through officer qualifications without any roadblocks. Now, in four years, you're a lieutenant for the Council. A remarkable chain of events, and that's _not_ taking your name into consideration. Though, I did notice that there's nothing in here about you ever going on your Pilgrimage."

"That started to decline in interest a few years before I became of age," Roahn explained, trying to play off Rethius' recounting of her own history by adopting a blasé pose. "A lot of the younger quarians forwent their Pilgrimage in favor of getting a more diverse education or work experience around the galaxy. We had our homeworld, so there was no point in bringing back any important technology or research while we still had three centuries' worth of secrets left to uncover within Rannoch."

"Which explains why you pursued a more independent path on Earth. I understand. Still, I do appreciate that you have a vested interest in making a name for yourself by demonstrating your merit." Rethius gave a sympathetic look. "If I may ask, how is your father doing, Roahn?"

"My father?" Roahn repeated, trying to keep her defensive gut reaction from spiking too much. The major simply wanted to make conversation. Nothing malicious to this whatsoever. "He's… fine. He keeps to himself back at the house, mostly. But he makes regular conversation with all his old crewmates every week."

Since Roahn left home for school and eventually the Defenders, her father had rarely ventured away from Rannoch all that much. He only left their home—the one that Tali had designed and had to have been rebuilt after it had sustained damage—on special occasions, whether that was visiting Roahn at her graduation or going to see an old friend. He was no longer the formidable soldier he used to be anymore. Radiation poisoning and the combined wounds from his exploits had made him frail and slightly crotchety, but the man still maintained a healthy enough lifestyle to rise above his afflictions and to live as normally as possible.

"That's good to hear," Rethius said. "I never met the man, myself. Shared a battlefield, though. London. Though, I wouldn't be surprised if every veteran had set foot on—"

"Is there a point to all this, sir?" Roahn asked, trying not to appear impatient.

Rethius tapped his fingers on his desk patiently, his mind returning back to their original conversation. "I'm a good judge of character, lieutenant. I've seen many people fly in and out of my command, for some reason or another. I've served over a decade in the Turian Hierarchy and I've seen the effects of what bureaucratic stagnation can do to an army. Favoritism. Lack of accountability. Nepotism. Each and every army is rife with these issues—the Defenders are no different."

Now Rethius rose from his desk to pace towards the window, looking almost longing onto the bright horn of Africa slowly turning its way below him. "The Council only incorporated the Defenders two years ago, lieutenant. A mere blip compared to the rest of the established militaries, with all of the growing pains to boot. Only… we're too idealistic for our own good. We're the product—and definition—of a reactionary force, created simply to battle out the unrest still plaguing this galaxy."

"The PMCs."

"Correct, though if you ask anyone at Command, they won't give you a definitive answer on that. No, the Council doesn't want to have a public spectacle by admitting that the Defenders were created simply to act as a hammer to their problems. Their Spectres are the scalpel but we do all the heavy lifting. Like it or not, we're the only remaining military force that still stands for something besides a steady paycheck, lieutenant. When everyone—the Alliance, the Hierarchy, the Union, and the Republics—all found out about the _wonderful_ services that the PMCs could provide them, they all thought they had stumbled upon the successor to medi-gel. _Spirits_, how they must have been drooling over the prospects. I'm sure the PMCs were relentless in their marketing. After all, having a corporation come to you and promise to shoulder the cost in both lives and equipment for battlefield work sounds like a tempting offer. The PMCs would finance the men and the ordinance while the rest of the militaries could rest on their laurels. You remember the first PMC that started this trend, right?"

"Chimera," Roahn nodded as she let her gaze briefly wander to the side. "Yes… I remember quite well."

Roahn was understating just how far her recollection on Chimera ran. Over a decade ago they had sent assassins to capture her father to fulfil some temerarious legal spat between him and a prominent human senator back on Earth. Both Roahn and her father had been forced to flee their home, pursued relentlessly by Chimera for weeks, and had no choice but to develop a tenuous sort of trust in the other during that time. With help from the old Normandy crew, Shepard had finally managed to kill all the assassins on their tail and had also implicated the rogue senator in his illegal plot in the process. The senator, Roahn later learned, had died from mysterious circumstances while in custody, and the CEO of Chimera had later been shot to death while in the hospital. Both of their deaths were extremely suspicious, but no new information had come of their demises since that time. Roahn, truthfully, had nearly forgotten all about them since then, something that she was happy to not dwell on.

"Well, Chimera's still around," Rethius continued. "Under new management, of course, but they still have a few tricks up their sleeve. They all do, these PMCs. But… that's also part of the problem, and why I called you into my office."

Roahn remained silent as Rethius finally turned around to make his way back to his desk, though he did not sit at his chair, as though as he was anticipating a certain reaction.

"There's been a development on the location we stumbled upon earlier today. I just received the word from Colonel Vaniel, who had received it from _her_ superior, and who, presumably, received from the Council. We're not allowed to talk about what we saw at that Alliance outpost—that black site—to anyone who wasn't in the building. Those are our orders, under penalty of court-martial."

Floored, Roahn nearly stood from the chair in surprise. Her eyes widened noticeably, aghast. A choking feeling momentarily flitted across her throat, turning her vision red for a brief instant. She cooled in the next second, but her face still felt flushed and she did not think it was due to a minute reaction from the air around her.

"We're getting sidelined on this?" she chose her words diplomatically.

"We have no choice. It doesn't matter that we never found out what that vault contained, the Alliance is putting an obscene amount of pressure on us to keep quiet."

"That doesn't seem right. What kind of pull does the Alliance have on the Council to back this up?"

"Trust me, they have a lot more influence than you and I would figure. There's a lot more to the political game than a straight pissing match between equal ranks. They want to stretch their muscles and claim their privilege—that's their prerogative. Clearly they don't want our help to solve those grisly murders on their own turf. If they think they can handle it, then it's theirs… at least, that's the Council's stance."

Roahn grimaced as she leaned forward a bit more eagerly. "They don't think that the Alliance is trying to cover something up?"

Rethius shrugged in an apologetic manner. "That's the Council's business at this point. Either they already know what the vault contained or they're confident that the Alliance can keep the rest of their matters in house to not draw any more outside suspicion."

"Someone killed those soldiers in there… and they did it in the most violent manner possible. They deliberately left one alive as a warning for us. Whoever did this is going to do it again, major. I'm sure of it."

"It's not up to us anymore," Rethius shook his head. "Not that it _was_ ever up to us. Which means this will probably be your last chance to discuss this topic with me. After you walk out that door, our orders are to forget what we saw. Am I clear on that, lieutenant?"

"Sir… I…" Roahn knew that this was a mistake. Capitulating on this just gave her such a bad feeling that she could almost retch. Her gut twisted in all directions, her brain aching to understand. There was just so much she did not know and that feeling of being in the dark she knew could be fatal. Being denied this nearly brought her to a state of intense agitation.

Rethius levelled a warning glance. "Lieutenant…"

Roahn gulped, fighting past the bile and the unease, past the disgruntlement and the glowering animosity.

"I… I understand."

"Good," the turian gave a sage nod. "But now I will allow you the chance to speak your full mind on this."

Roahn looked up. "My full mind, sir?"

"That is what I said, isn't it?"

"Even though what I have to say might not be all that… supportive?"

"Well, none of us are perfect," Rethius said as he took his seat once more across from Roahn. "Put it this way, if you didn't have any misgivings I would be a little concerned that you would buy into the propaganda machine so easily. Would you mean to say that you have been putting your full faith in the Defenders this whole time? Us—you and I—we can't afford to be so naïve."

Roahn explosively sighed, obviously torn at her predicament. "It would be fitting if everyone shared the same solidarity through our ideals, wouldn't it? Maybe I _was_ naïve when I joined the Defenders or maybe it was the correct move for me all along. I joined because it seemed like the right thing to do, sir. I wanted to help make a difference in this galaxy. I knew that I could do more good if I fought as a soldier for the side I believed in. My father taught me that the right person in the right place could change the fate of trillions. I… I don't know about being the 'right' person, but I wanted to throw myself behind a cause for good. How many causes like that are out there, anyway? The mercenary groups? They only work for credits. The quarian marines? They only care about the interest of quarians—they're still hamstrung by insular thinking. The Defenders, they… their whole existence was solely towards maintaining the peace in the galaxy. Convenient for me. They were the only ones doing anything against the PMCs. If anything, I know that seemed like the right place for me to be at the time."

"And?" Rethius lifted his fingers from his face momentarily.

"And…" Roahn toyed with the words in her mouth, almost as if she holding them all back before they spilled out in an uncontrollable torrent. "…and I've seen nothing change. Four years. Seven major campaigns. Each new battle we enter faces us off against a new corporation, sticking their nose where it doesn't belong. They terrorize civilians for resources, for money, to fulfil some corporate mandate. We get called in and we completely wreck the PMCs to bits. We win. Every time we go to battle, we win. But for what? A notch on our belts? A pat on the back? I know that every single PMC we have faced off against is still in operation today. They have such vast sums of money that they can eat the tiny amount of damage that we deal them. It doesn't matter that they commit war crimes on Council worlds—the major courts have already deemed that only the person or persons that have _hired_ the PMC are the ones liable for criminal charges and not the PMC itself. We're just facing off against the tool that some unrelated corporation has chosen to unleash on a hapless world. Most of the time, we don't even catch the people who set the PMC against the civilians anyway."

"Then, what about Manhattan? You think that will amount to anything?"

Rethius was just making conversation but Roahn still could not help but be a tiny bit suspicious of the turian. What was he gaining by listening to her full thoughts? She considered cutting herself off right then and there, but something inside was imploring her to continue, for the sake of putting a part of her soul to rest.

"Honestly," Roahn left a pregnant pause, building up the tension before she could resume, "I think that what we did in that city was an entirely useless endeavor."

It was difficult to tell whether that was the answer Rethius was looking for, but Roahn continued on nonetheless.

"We went after the wrong people today, sir. We're not going to get anything done if we keep smashing ourselves against these PMC forces so brazenly. You know that I've never before seen so many of our wounded after one battle? And that hundreds of civilians were needlessly blown up in the process—collateral damage, they call it? Sir, I have to say that, if we have any more Manhattans following today, if we lose the same amount of people fighting against this limitless army, then we're never going to win. We will lose everything and with the other militaries in their reduced state, who is going to defend the galaxy then? If we can't punish the actual perpetrators, then what are we _doing_? What is our purpose? If we can't even live up to our name… then… then…"

The period of sustained silence immediately afterward was all Roahn needed to realize that maybe she just might have gone too far with her griping. Embarrassed at the cutting truths she had subtly revealed about herself, she rose, cheeks darkened, and snapped her posture straight.

"I… apologize if I might have gone out of line, sir," was all she could say before she turned on a heel, now facing the door.

"Lieutenant," Rethius' voice slashed through the quiet.

Roahn froze, her hand nearly touching the door's holographic interface, inches from the promise of freedom. Agonizingly, she rotated her head, her eyes finding Rethius' slit ones peering right back at her, cutting a swath easily through her visor to appraise her without prejudice.

The turian blinked slowly before he spoke again, his words heavy and ragged with a monitory fashion. "I don't want you to leave with the impression that what you said just now was not in sync with my own sentiments. I agree with you. With every word. But there are many in this outfit that are averse to this sort of talk, that don't react well to contention. Command has all of our hands tied on this, Roahn. Be careful who you speak to about this."

Flirting with hesitation, Roahn momentarily opened her mouth to speak, but shut her jaw when she realized that she had nothing left to contribute. She was about to leave but she ground all her limbs to a halt when she felt the flanging effect of the major's voice before it reached her ears.

"Also," Rethius added, in a substantially lighter tone, as he bent down momentarily to reach something from a nearby desk drawer, "I'm obligated to tell you that your new station as my XO requires a slight change of attire. Having familiarized myself with your performance, I believe you'll fit into the new role just fine."

The major set a tiny box upon the desk. Roahn walked over and lifted the cover. Inside was a little pin: a tiny line flanked by two larger bars.

"Lieutenant Commander?" Roahn spoke breathily.

"A battlefield commendation, for your quick and decisive action. Plus it wouldn't do to have a large rank gap between me and my XO. I went to the liberty of turning in the paperwork already. The job's yours, essentially, once you walk out that door."

Roahn turned the pin over with her fingers, delicately. _Lieutenant Commander_, she thought. Her father had only retired as a Commander, just one rank above hers. He would have been promoted to Lt. Cmdr. at around her age, she figured. She tried not to shake too badly as she pressed the pin upon her shoulder, spearing a piece of her _sehni_ in the process.

"I'll be sure to mind myself," Roahn said as she smartly saluted Rethius. "Thank you for the opportunity, major."

"I'm confident it will not be wasted," Rethius replied as he returned the salute and then reached out to shake Roahn's hand, which she did. Even through the suit, the turian's spindly fingers felt warm and dry, the carapace making a tiny scraping noise against the palm of her enviro-suit. "You're dismissed."

Grateful for the reprieve, Roahn released the major's hand nearly immediately. This was certainly a day of surprises for her. Her thoughts cloudy, she turned back towards the door and left the office in a murky haze, simultaneously elated and apprehensive as she became alone once more.

* * *

The frigate had set aside a portion of one of its decks to act as a communications hub for the soldiers. Any troopers on their off time could use any one of the QEC transmitters to talk to anyone across the galaxy, with only minimal lag. Unfortunately, a QEC transmitter was quite a hefty expenditure to justify, so for an entire ship's worth of crewmen and marines, there were only five of these contraptions available to use.

As expected, a line stretched around the corner from the comm room. People of all shapes and sizes, many of them still clad in their combat armor, milled about in the queue, waiting their turn to enter one of the five booths. The Defenders had instituted a ten minute time limit for each call, but that did not help matters all that much because no such protocols had been put into place to police such a rule. There was no integrated software installed yet to automatically disconnect a call nor were there any assigned personnel to physically check if a call had gone over the limit. Not surprisingly, this led to many fistfights on this part of the ship, accompanied by a fair bit of accusatory language.

And yet the Defenders were still wondering why morale was going down.

Roahn took her place at the end of the line, having mentally prepared herself for the long wait. She rested her back against the wall and crossed her arms, only shuffling forward inches at a time. The people comprising the line were quiet. Their energy to talk had been completely sapped today—they were saving it all up for their upcoming call.

To make matters confusing, Roahn was not all that sure why she had gotten in line to begin with. Did she really need to call someone that badly? The strange part was that she had no good answer to that question. It was almost as if she had guided herself in line on autopilot, her body taking command of her actions in lieu of an absent mind. She idly stroked the new pin that adorned her shoulder. _Oh, maybe that's why._ Perhaps she wanted to reach out to someone to… to gloat? No, to celebrate. She was now Lieutenant Commander… Shepard. Accomplished without having to swing her name around like a brutish club. Her achievements here, this whole time, had been from merit alone, just the way she had intended.

She had all the proof she needed as to how she could strike her own way.

_Command has all of our hands tied on this._

Roahn tightly shut her eyes and gave her head a fierce shake. She did not want to replay back her conversation with Rethius just yet. The promotion being an outlier, the whole encounter had been nothing but a source of immense frustration. With the Council. With the PMCs. With the chain of command. If only it were so easy that Roahn could pick up a weapon and blow away the root of all evil in the galaxy in one fell stroke.

But life rarely was that easy.

The line jolted forward and Roahn raised her head, now shocked to see that she was a dozen or so meters away from the entrance of one of the comm bays. At this rate, she would get her turn in half an hour. Roahn deliberately guided her mind to wander idle fields pertaining to the future close at hand. Her hands began to make miniscule gesticulations as she started to quietly mouth her words that she was priming herself to say.

"_Hey, dad… I... I hope you're doing well. Aw, no, that's lame. I mean… hey, dad, it's been a long time since we… ugh, that's not it either_."

If anyone was mildly concerned at the imaginary conversation the quarian was carrying out with herself while in line next to her, they betrayed no visible reactions. In fact, several people in line were going through similar motions. Roahn was in good company.

"_I don't know if you've been watching the news lately… but… I'm still alive. Heh, yeah, I'm surprised too. No, no, I'm just kidding. I'm fine. Got off with a few scratches, nothing too serious. You should see the other guys. No, I wasn't anywhere near the worst of the fighting. I was in a few skirmishes, that's all. You don't need to worry, dad_."

Roahn's fictional dialogue continued on, providing her with an appropriate distraction while the line slowly moved forward, inch by inch. In a fortunate turn of events, three of the five bays cleared at almost the exact time—Roahn was third in line at that point and was nearly shocked out of her stupor as she staggered forward to enter the comm bay.

Once inside the tiny dark room, Roahn approached the hovering holo-panel that contained the call interface. All one needed to do was punch in their identification and the protocol number of the person they wanted to call. Roahn typed in her credentials—the system processed them with ease—but when the software now patiently waited for her recipient information, she simply stared down at the glowing interface, as if coming to from a deep sleep.

Nerves chittered at her spine. She looked around the room nervously. How long had she been putting this call off? Three months? Four months? Her father's face was nothing but a smoky visage in her mind. Why should she be so afraid to talk to this man? It was not like he held any disapproval for her career direction. In fact, he had been incredibly supportive of her the whole way. For years on end. In fact, he had been nothing but open and understanding for a long time now.

And who would understand her problems with life better than him? Her issues with the Defenders, with the Alliance, the man would undoubtedly have some pertinent advice for her to consider.

_He's my father. If I could only talk to one person in this galaxy…_

Roahn finally inched her fingers forward, her arm feeling like it was straining as it pushed aside molecules of air. But when she was about to touch the hardlight surface, it immediately blinked into nothingness with a mocking _blip_.

Dumbly, Roahn stared at her hand, grasping at nothingness. She was about to vocalize her confusion when clarification came in the form of an automated voice through the overhead intercom.

"_All hands to task stations. All hands to task stations. The local Defender task force has been diverted to Luna. Alliance Facility Broncho is being overrun by PMC Interra. Defenders have been asked to assist in taking the station back. Casualties have been reported. Repeat, casualties have been reported. All hands to task stations…"_

Roahn clenched her outstretched hand, imagining that she was shattering her manifested rage within her fist to unleash it in a fireball of energy and spite. Interra. One more name to scratch out on the board.

They never learn.

Furious that her immediate plans had been squandered, Roahn surged out from the comm booth, shouldering her way past the annoyed people who had been waiting in line behind her, and stomped her way to the armory, to prepare once more for war, tiredness be damned.

A warrior's work never ends.

_It's time to kill some bosh'tets._

* * *

**A/N: I would make the suggestion that the final chapter of _Cenotaph I_ would be a good resource to use, in case you need a brief refresher, because little tidbits from that particular chapter are hinted at in this one.**

**All in all, _Cenotaph II_ had a fairly decent start, though I would be interested to see how people like this particular chapter when you take the previous one into consideration. I did just plunge you all straight into the action right at the outset of this story. I can understand if you might be lacking a little context right now. Don't worry, I've taken all that into account. There will be some time to slow down later. This is just the opening act. We've got a lot more story to go.**

**Please drop a review if you have the time. Even if you might be wondering exactly where the hell I'm going to take this story, any feedback is super important to me. Constructive comments never go unappreciated.**

**Playlist:**

**Traverse to Command Post (The FDR) / Link up with Vaniel**  
**"Where's the Deluxe Version?"**  
**Cliff Martinez**  
**Drive (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Black Site Massacre**  
**"Take Off"**  
**John Powell**  
**United 93 (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	3. Chapter 3: Ultraviolence

"_Have you ever faced an asari commando unit before? Turns out, it doesn't matter if you have or have not, because if you have a powerful enough weapon and that you're at a high enough level, you can down an asari right as they enter the room before they have a chance to let off a biotic blast. Easy!"_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

Luna

The Tern bombers—in Defender blue—dropped out of the forever night to swoop low above the dark volcanic maria. Lunar plains and impact craters marked the surface of the moon, enabling it to glisten, jewel-like, even from close up. The crust of anorthosite stayed frozen in time, undisturbed due to the satellite's low gravity. The winged bombers made no wake as the air was nearly vacuum. Invisible to the naked eye, they made slashing cuts through the clouds of lunar dust, their fusion engines roasting the particles of comet matter as they soared quietly overhead.

Five bombers. They rapidly positioned themselves into a V-formation. Their targets were coming up and they needed to get ready.

Interrupting the horizon, some forty miles away, was a collection of intricate buildings. Their target: Portskerra Base. A settlement for Alliance personnel and now, apparently under enemy occupation, courtesy of the PMC Interra. Stark white metal surged hundreds of meters down into the rock that comprised the moon. A large and complex campus made up of dozens of individual buildings. Some of these buildings were on stilts. Most were prefabs, dotting the upcoming campus haphazardly. Trails of rover tracks connected the buildings, permanently etched into the dirt.

The pilot of the lead bomber merely had to touch an affirm button—the squadron tightened up without a sound.

As the bombing group finally came upon the base, they tilted on their axis a few degrees to the left. Now they were no longer on a straight course to Portskerra Base itself. They were following their orders to the letter, though, and would continue to do so, even past the moment when they dropped their ordinance, creating micro-shudders through the holds of their craft as their weight abruptly lightened.

Mini-thrusters in the bomb casings helped guide the bombs down to the moon's surface. With there being so little gravity on Luna, this kind of ordinance needed additional thrust to ensure that it met its target appropriately instead of aimlessly drifting off into space. Dozens upon dozens of these explosives fell to the surface, expelled with conviction from its harboring home. The Terns, with their objective completed—for now—pulled away, further into space, confident that the deep void would camouflage them from any enemy fire.

They would not get a chance to view the results of their efforts.

* * *

However, the men and women on board the leading Defender frigate, hovering just a few miles above the moon's surface, did.

Roahn frowned as she beheld the digitized explosions as she stood behind Major Rethius in the CIC. The main command hub was cramped, filled to the brim with ensigns bustling to and fro, and all the technology was outdated to the point of being laughable. The holograms were still monochrome!

The detonations from the bombs resulted in neat puffs of molten dust and rock thrown up together in a boiling, soupy mass. One after one exploded, a quick flash of yellow-red followed by white-brown plumes that filtered dust into the air, turning everything foggy. The tactical fieldview of the blast zone showed over a hundred separate explosions from bombs finding their targets.

But the actual blasts had occurred many meters away from the actual base. All of the buildings looked to have been unscathed.

And Roahn had not seen any of the enemy get caught within the explosive radii. She gave a tiny huff. Five waves of bombing runs already, five times the front lines had been strafed, and there was nothing to show for it. Nothing the Defenders could even hope to add to the toll of war today.

As the dust settled, Roahn made an exasperated gesture towards the screen. "That's it? That's the best we can do?"

"We can't order the bombers to get any closer," Rethius said to her. "The Alliance has expressly forbade us from damaging any of the structures."

"So they crawl to us for help, begging to have us take back their property, but they're bold enough to lay these types of conditions on us? Are they not aware that bombing runs like these are meant to soften initial resistance? Now we either look like cowards for breaking path or simply incompetent for missing the broad side of a base. Neither is particularly appealing."

"We had to try," Rethius momentarily drooped his head. "But like it or not, we've got a lot of restrictions for this job."

"That's great to hear," Roahn drawled.

"The Alliance is worried about some of their research being irreparable as a result of this little skirmish. They want to keep collateral damage down by restricting our ROA. We're going to have to do another on-foot incursion for this one. Fortunately, Interra doesn't look like they brought in any anti-air artillery. We should have an easier time getting on the ground today."

The thought did not appease Roahn much. There was something entirely wrong with this assignment and how quickly the Defenders had rushed to take it on. Why would the Alliance specifically go to the Council to have its problems solved? Portskerra Base was on their own moon, their own turf. Surely the Alliance had at least enough forces to take care of this issue themselves.

The more Roahn thought about the reasons, though, the more she came to the decision that the Alliance's decision was entirely strategic, not to mention political. The Alliance had been paving the way for broad acceptance of PMC usage concurrent to its own ranks. They also wanted to minimize their own casualties however possible. Fortunately, they knew that the Defenders were around to take care of specific problems pertaining to rogue PMCs and this way, they would earn political points by essentially hiring out the Council to perform its own specialized duty.

Yet again, the Defenders were being thrown to the wolves while their masters would sit in their cushy offices many lightyears away, unconcerned to the plight of the common man.

"Interra," Roahn gestured to the map of the battlefield, indicating the red circular section that encased the entirety of the base and represented the area of the enemy's hold. "Do we know why they attacked the Alliance directly?"

Again Rethius looked pained. "We've got no background information. All we know is that, as of eight hours ago, an assault was launched on this facility by Interra for unknown reasons. Alliance personnel have reported that several PMC strike teams have infiltrated the compound and are holed up, waiting for us. What their reasoning for taking this place was, we have no idea."

"Think it might be for the same reason as New York?"

"Doubtful. We were facing off against Tyranno and Bucephalus then. No reason to suspect anything of coincidence yet. Besides, we're so far in the dark that guessing is not going to do us any good here. If the Alliance is holding something of interest here, you can guarantee that we'll be the last people to hear of it."

Roahn sourly gazed at the battlefield mockup. A thick dark line where all the bombs had exploded made a good visual boundary between the Alliance and Interra lines. Other than that, Roahn could see right away that mounting an attack on this place would be difficult. The facility had been placed smack-dab in the middle of a flat plain with only a few shallow craters dotting the landscape. There was no immediate cover for miles. If Interra was already entrenched as Rethius said, they would have no problem picking the Defenders off from the safety of the buildings.

The quarian then strode into the middle of the holographic field, her body displacing billions of light atoms as she waded through the artificial sea. She appraised the topography and the scale of the dimensions. She figured that the Defenders would have to land a good clip away from the main base, to avoid any hidden artillery, in order to properly gather and move as a company. They would have no choice but to try and sprint for the buildings once they got within range of small-arms fire. No chance of dropping in from above—the Defender frigates were not equipped for that, plus such an infiltration would attract too much attention and result in an outright bloodbath for the Defenders. No, it was all going to be yet another killzone either way. A run for survival. Roahn's muscles ached just thinking about it.

Roahn then stepped out from the light field as she stared right at Rethius, her eyes already shaped into a distinctive expression of determination from behind her mask. "It's not going to be pretty, but we can do it. Major, request permission to lead the ground charge."

Rethius momentarily rocked back in surprise but kept his reaction still relatively neutral. "You're going to be terribly exposed out there, Lieutenant Commander. It's probably going to be even worse than New York. If you're merely trying to live up to your—"

Abruptly fuming, Roahn took a large stride forward so that she was barely a foot away from Rethius. The turian was taller than her by several inches, and Roahn detested the fact that she had to look up in order to stare him in the eye from this distance, but there was no mistaking the intense and searing tenacity present within her, that drive to shatter the barrier of obstinacy between the two of them, no matter what it took.

"I only want to command my troops, major," Roahn simply said, avoiding the nearly-uttered insinuation that Rethius had nearly demonstrated. "I want to keep them alive. We aren't leaving this dirtball any time soon. Might as well get this done, right?"

A small note of appreciation escaped Rethius' throat as his mandibles gave a slight twitch. "Very well, Roahn. You may take the first wave down at your discretion."

A small victory.

"Thank you, sir," Roahn said genuinely before she turned to leave.

"Recount your orders," Rethius called towards the retreating back of the quarian.

Roahn only rotated her upper body halfway, a sly look apparent on her face through the blue visor. "Infiltrate the facility, subdue the Interra commander, don't break any of the Alliance's shit."

Rethius could not help but breathe out in a slight chuckle.

"On your way, then."

* * *

The transport ships dropped the entire landing force off on the edge of the Sinus Honoris, a bay riddled by rille systems where it met up with the mare, without incident. Not a single projectile had shot forward to blow any of them out of the air. Roahn felt strangely optimistic. Already they were doing better than New York in terms of casualties from the time currently elapsed.

She knew better than to let her guard down completely, though. The battle had yet to commence.

Earth hung above their heads, a glittering sphere nestled in a dark curtain as the land in front of them seemed to abruptly drop away. Half white. Half black. The boundary between rock and nothingness. The blue oceans of the distant planet sparkled serenely, even from afar. Roahn had made the determination long ago that Earth just had to be the prettiest planet she had ever seen. So many beautiful colors all cobbled together to create a wondrous orb of life. Rannoch looked like a dirt ball in comparison.

A couple hundred of tired Defender troops bounded their way across the rocky expanse. They had to skip their way across due to the moon's low gravity. Micro-thrusters embedded in each one's combat suit did their best to compensate by shoving the wearer down towards the ground with each lanky stride, but it made little difference.

One such soldier tripped and fell flat on his face, skidding forward several feet and leaving a dusty ditch behind. He would not be the first one to stumble. The man shakily got up, the front of his suit gouged to hell. The "sand" on Luna was sharp as razors. Millennia of sitting in one place upon the moon, without wind or sea to erode it, meant that all the rock formations here were sharp enough to tear through a suit if one fell too badly. Any fabric exposed to any light rubbing upon the dust would be torn to shreds in seconds.

Comms were limited—Interra was suspected of tapping their frequencies. The PMC was known for their prowess in both espionage and cyberwarfare. Roahn resorted to hand gestures to guide her platoon forward. Her breathing echoed in her helmet as she kept skipping across the blasted plain. Silt filtered around her ankles as she moved, creeping in a low fog that turned into a cloud as the wake from a hundred more soldiers filed in behind her. The shimmering antennae of the Alliance base now speared into view over a low rise. Roahn gave a quick check to her assault rifle, confirming that she was loaded to the brim with thermal clips.

Roahn made sure that her platoon would take the last klick very carefully. She made a chopping motion to the soldiers behind her. Quickly, the platoon wound up with a string of the first ninety-six people in a line, one that was now parallel to the enemy-held base. They were so obviously not at all camouflaged way out here, exposed and alert.

Activating her magnifying function, Roahn swept her gaze across the base. She could see no outward signs of life. The buildings were featureless from the outside and a shiny white uniform color.

No movement to report.

Roahn waved the first column forward. "Line A—take the leftmost building. Follow the curve of that slight ridge until you reach the front entrance."

"Roger that, commander," the line's forward lieutenant nodded.

"Line B—into the craters. I want to give A covering fire the whole way if necessary. Fifteen meters, then hold."

The first soldier from B took the first few steps, awkwardly trying to accelerate back to their peak velocity in the low gravity, but she was not afforded the chance to get into the crater because her head abruptly exploded in a cloud of gray splinters and blood.

It was oddly hypnotic, Roahn realized, to watch the vacated parts of the woman's head fall to the ground in a near vacuum. The blood clung together in glutinous clumps. Shards of skull spun lazily. Bits of an eyeball leaked in a clear stream. The headless body crumpled to the ground, but it took so long for it to finally come to rest that Roahn could have sworn that everything was proceeding in slow-motion for her.

"We've got mechs!" someone screamed before another bullet skimmed the top of his helmet. There was a faint pop and the soldier also toppled over, a wide arc of blood and brains now trailing from the top of his scalped head. The shot had been completely soundless, having punched its way through plastic, skin and bone in an instant.

A hundred meters in front of the base, dozens upon dozens of mounds suddenly rose from the ground like spikes. Trailing white moon dust, the flaky surface slowly sloughed off of the LOKI mechs that had been lying in wait for the Defenders, buried underneath a foot of dirt by Interra. All holding high-powered rifles.

"_Get to cover!_" Roahn bellowed before the air was silently filled with the sparkle of tracer rounds.

Even as Roahn hunkered down in an effort to avoid the incoming fire, she knew deep down that her order made no difference. The mechs were too close for any of the cover—slight as it was—to be of any effect. The men and women of the Defenders fell by the dozens. The dusty mechs plodded forward in a steady march, the recoil from their weapons barely knocking them back.

The LOKI combat mechanoid was universally known as a cheap, readily-available model. Customizable to the nth degree and adaptable to most environments, they were bought by the hundreds to be used as an inexpensive workforce. Half of Interra's personnel was made up of mechs. Apparently they had seen fit to bring them all to Luna.

Roahn's eyes tracked the wide field as the bullets silently sang by overhead. The ground popped just a few inches in front of her head, spraying dust onto her visor. She hunkered down and wiped it off with an annoyed grunt. She was feeling trapped out here, with a wall of enemy fire creating a ceiling that meant death to touch.

"Bravo team," she tried to call out to the group huddled in the ridge next to hers, "I need you to flank the forward assault line. Delta and Echo will provide cover—"

She was not afforded the chance to finish her sentence, because an incoming grenade soon bounced into view and rolled into the ditch the soldiers were occupying. Frenzied cries rose up and many of them tried to pounce upon it in an effort to throw it back. But the low gravity made everyone's movements lethargic—slow to act—and Roahn could only watch as the soldiers disappeared in a dirty puff of soil, blood, and limbs.

Any of the other Defenders out in the open who had not managed to get to relative safety were all cut down in seconds. Bullets shredded armor and flesh alike. One turian fell to his knees—he had been shot in the throat but did not die instantaneously. Dark blue blood bubbled in a gushing and gelatinous stream from the hole in his neck. His fluids soaked the soil—the ground drank it up greedily. An asari tried to push off with her feet to dodge the explosive radius of another grenade. A round caught her in the side just as she was jumping, spinning her completely around, tearing her stomach open and allowing her organs to float free.

"No!" Roahn cried as she saw more and more Defenders die in seconds. Her comrades… everyone…

The man next to her decided to peak out from the lip of the crater. A bullet immediately caught him square in the face, breaking through his shields and shattering his visor. His brains fell to the ground through the hole that had been punched into the back of his skull.

"Motherfuckers!" another human next to Roahn, by the name of Iglesias, roared as he raised his arm—with his rifle—over the edge and began firing at random. The gun jerked all over the place as the soldier did not even bother to look at who he was aiming at.

"Solder!" Roahn had to scream, even though her sound could not possibly carry through the atmosphere, "_Aim_ that fucking weapon! That's not a toy—"

But again, Roahn was too late. There was a horrible scream over the radio and several cries of '_Man down!_' Roahn edged her head out for a better look, braving enemy fire in the process.

Iglesias had missed his mark quite badly. By firing his weapon one-handed while ducking in the crater, he could not have even seen that his rifle had not been pointed at the LOKI mechs but at Delta team occupying their position some twenty-five meters away. One of their engineers was writhing on the ground, their left hand clutching the stump of their wrist. Blood was squirting through the biologic foam seal that automatically closed around the wound, but the ground was already colored a shocking red.

Roahn swung the butt of her weapon, furious, and conked Iglesias on the side of his helmet, creating an impressive dent. "You stupid maniac! What did I tell you?! Don't shoot until you're sure of your aim! We're a man down because of you! If you're not going to follow proper tactics and just repeat moves that you've only seen in vids—"

"Grenade!" someone warned.

There was barely any time to react. Roahn instinctively dove down next to Iglesias, who had buried his helmet into the sand. All Roahn saw was the blinking streak of the grenade as it rolled towards their position and then felt a powerful _whumpf_ in her suit as the device detonated. A wave of pressure built in her ears, nearly shattering her eardrums before passing just at the critical moment. It felt like she had just been squeezed by a giant hand—her ribs felt bruised.

Dust fell around them in white sheets. Roahn tentatively raised her head up, now having to wipe harder than ever to clear her sight of the chalky substance.

"Get…" she coughed as she felt for Iglesias' shoulder, "…get up, everyone. We need to go right… _oh_."

Iglesias was faintly twitching on his back, making no noise. He no longer even looked human anymore. The grenade had flung a biting stream of razor sharp sand in their direction—Iglesias had borne the brunt of the blast. The sand completely shredded his suit open, breaching it in a dozen places and causing a catastrophic chain reaction to occur. The suit's automatic sealing function could not even cope against the severity of the damage that had been attained.

Blood completely coated the interior of Iglesias' helmet. His sinuses had ruptured from rapid depressurization, completely ruining what was left of his face. A mixture of foamy saliva and thick black fluids had bubbled from his throat after his lungs had burst. He had undergone a massive hemorrhage in seconds.

Miraculously, Iglesias body still underwent the occasional spasm in his fingers as he lay upon the ground. Roahn could only stare in utter silence.

"Oh god," the last remaining soldier sharing Roahn's trench said, "he's still alive." He then pitched forward with a sudden gasp as a LOKI mech, who had crested the hill behind him while he had been distracted, blasted a hole through the soldier's chest with a single shotgun burst to the back. More blood exploded onto the ground followed by bits of bone that bounced to land amongst the rocks.

Roahn took a slow, tender blink. Then she raised her own weapon to meet the enemy. Her first shot was wild and high, but it gently scraped by the side of the LOKI's head, blowing half of it off in a flurry of sparks. The LOKI swiveled in all directions, its shotgun still clenched in its claw-like hands, before it lost its footing and toppled into the ditch with Roahn, jerking spasmodically. Roahn finished it off with a final blast to the chest, where the mech's CPU was located.

Screaming only on her channel, Roahn leapt from the trench with an easy push from her legs and began firing—she brought the reticle of the rifle up to eyesight and methodically pulled the trigger once the heads of each LOKI gradually ticked into view. The cortexes of the mechs exploded in gray detonations of metal and plastic. Limply, they collapsed where they had last stood, brief ripples extending out from their forms in a final outline.

Coils of white hot death narrowly zipped by Roahn as she ran from position to position. All she could see were the lines of mechs, all in the yellow and black Interra colors. Nowhere was the vivid Defender blue apparent. Had they all been killed? She shouted orders over the comms, but there was no indication that anyone was listening.

_Damn. All alone._

More and more of the LOKIs were now turning in Roahn's direction. Bullets and lasers slashed around her, bobbing high and low. Roahn gave as good as she got, perhaps even better. A nearby mech fell, blasted into two, but more were there to trample over it. She still kept firing, ignoring the jackhammering the recoil was doing to her arms. Already she was numb to the sensation, the rest of her senses heightened beyond emotion.

The thrusters on Roahn's back helped propel her to the first of the base's buildings. She was perhaps less than fifty meters away from the door. She could see the green icon hovering over the face of the opening, blinking slowly, tauntingly. Roahn had to tear her eyes away from the sight lest she become too distracted and take a round in the back because she was not looking.

Spinning around, Roahn switched to her grenade launcher while, at the same time, she used her thrusters to propel her parallel over the ground while she aimed at the enemy backwards from her direction of motion.

How dearly she wanted to make a wry quip right about now, but unfortunately Roahn was not blessed with that kind of wit.

She let fly with the launcher. Several times. The projectiles sailed amongst the horde of mechs, who had all clustered together due to their relatively dumb programming. The grenades seemed to split the surface of the moon completely asunder—an entire chunk of the ground lifted into the air before the huge clump exploded after being surrounded with a lick of pale flame. There was a terrific popping sound in Roahn's suit and she saw the mechs disappear in a cloud of machinery and a shock wave of pressure.

At least twenty of the LOKIs had been completely demolished from the salvo. A thick cylindrical dust cloud gently rose towards the roof of the atmosphere, a solid-looking column. One LOKI head bounced from the freshly made crater, the optics upon its glass face still blinking in confusion. Roahn gently dug her heels back into the ground, gouging new lines into the lunar plain as she skidded to a halt.

She had made it to the door of the base, but it did not look like anyone else had. With the Earth hanging above their heads, Roahn could see a few more mechs off in the distance, unconcerned with her, their guns still flashing as they dealt their deadly payload. Mopping up the final pockets of Defender resistance, most likely. Roahn wondered how many were left alive.

"All Defenders, sound off!" she barked, but only static greeted her. No one was answering. "This is the commander, respond!"

Nothing. Absolute silence.

How could this have happened? A few hundred of the best and brightest troops in the Defender's reserves and they had all been destroyed in minutes. Roahn felt her cheeks grow hot as something wrenched in her chest. She felt the tiny inclination of regret weigh down her heart. _I failed these men_, she thought for but a moment. The notion was seized and then firmly quashed—Roahn imagined stomping upon the feeling's personification until it was nothing but a bloody pulp. Whatever empathy had infiltrated her mind had been decisively filtered out.

Yet… some logic remained. The bad intel. The rush to seize this facility. This whole mission had been stacked against the Defenders from the very beginning. It had been stricken by poor planning and an overzealous command looking to add more commendations to their lapels.

_New York City all over again_, she realized with a sour grimace.

Now holding onto her shotgun so tightly she could almost feel the sizzling metal through her suit, Roahn slapped the control for the door and it opened to allow her into the airlock. She stepped inside and waited for the automated systems to cycle the air of the room. Her eyes shone menacingly through her visor and she lowered her stance while bringing her weapon to bear.

There was nothing else she could do for the remaining men out there. The chaos of the battle or the gamma rays from the sun had done something to her comm equipment—fried the circuits, probably. It would be total suicide to rush back out there to save who was left. Major Rethius would obviously see that the first attack wave was ineffective and would send out the second one posthaste. The Defenders would break the Interra lines. Hell, they already had, if Roahn's presence inside counted.

But for now, there was only one way to honor her company's sacrifice. Find the terrorist in charge of this farcical army and kill him. Slowly.

_And painfully_, Roahn vowed as she was finally allowed admittance into the bowels of the facility. Greeted by an industrial maze, she stepped through the door.

* * *

_Portskerra Base - Luna__  
Level B25_

Alliance Captain Tom Sallis watched in horror as his friend's body, Lieutenant Daniela Racine, hit the basement floor in front of him with a pulpy smack. Her once beautiful blue eyes were now painful gashes, gouged into deep black pits from the point of a knife. The tender smile that had graced her elegant features was now a comical, permanent grin—a Glasgow smile had been carved through both cheeks. Blood was everywhere. Sallis could still hear Racine's hideous screams linger in his head, already haunting his thoughts.

A heavy object stomped upon his back, keeping him pinned to the floor. His ribs were crushing his lungs. Breathing was painful. Sallis could discern a breathing sound but it sounded raspy and… metallic. Animal-like, even. When Sallis tried to struggle against his captor, the weight would increase upon him so quickly it felt like his spine would snap from the stress. Whoever was holding him had inhuman strength.

Sallis' eyes wandered around the basement floor in terror. The main lights had been completely cut on this level, but a few emergency strobes still continued to flicker while a singular lamp tried its best to dispel the encroaching shadow. He could not see the people who had attacked him and his team down here. One second they had been absorbed in their mindless patrols, the next strange figures had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, as if they stepped from the very bowels of the facility, right out of the darkness! One by one, his team had fallen to the invaders, many of them not even allowed a final cry before their lives were suddenly snuffed out. Those that survived had been subdued in this demeaning fashion… but Sallis knew why he was still alive as of this moment.

The vault. The intruders were after what was in the vault. The tall door sat proudly just a few meters away, the bold face glinting impressively as the strobes flashed upon it. The keypad next to it flickered impatiently, awaiting the passcode that would allow access to its contents.

Sallis neither knew nor cared what the vault contained. It had simply been an objective for him to guard, nothing more.

How unfortunate that such a seemingly meaningless objective would lead to nearly everyone's deaths.

The severed heads of his subordinates, many still in their helmets, rolled around the floor, still leaking blood in a grisly trail. Sallis shivered as he found that he could not stop staring at the dark stumps of the decapitated bodies that lay next to their heads. One of the individuals that had so soundly trounced them had been the cause of their painful deaths. Sallis had only gotten glimpses. Medium height, male, race unknown, but dressed head to toe in some aerodynamic body armor. The intense black armor itself had been polished to a glossy sheen—Sallis could see that a thick thermal undersuit comprised the bottom layer—and delicately wrapped around the man. The man's helmet was an interesting design—it had two optics that had the ability to focus in and out of objects repeatedly and its prominent cheekbones curved down to an ovular shaped voice-box implanted near the jaw. The voice-box itself was odd because it made the helmeted soldier's pitch fluctuate up and down randomly, but his actual timbre still sounded like a breathy rasp, light and fragile.

The most prominent feature was not the armor, nor the helmet of this soldier. Upon his back, Sallis could see that a large jetpack had been fastened there. Two jets flanked a thick, cylindrical thermal tank, also colored black. This was a man equipped to take on an armored column, Sallis had realized, to his ever-growing panic.

The soldier, who had repeatedly introduced himself as the Aeronaut to each of the Alliance prisoners, had gone through the line of his assembled captors, questioning them bluntly for the passcode to the vault. Sallis' initial pride at hearing each of them refuse the terrorist's demand was quickly quashed when he saw what the Aeronaut did to each and every one of them when he was denied the answer he wanted.

The Aeronaut never asked more than once. There was no second chance for Sallis' men. Whenever one of the Alliance prisoners either shut their mouth or gave their listless recounting of meaningless information to the winged soldier, the Aeronaut killed them. Using a long and sharp knife, Sallis had watched the Aeronaut slowly decapitate the men and women who spurned him over and over again.

The killings had not been quick. The Aeronaut's knife was not meant to slash once and for the deed to be over. Instead, the Aeronaut flung each prisoner to the ground, planted a knee on the small of their back, and began sawing back and forth with his knife at his hostage's neck. Blood had sprayed in thick arcs as the edge of the knife agonizingly cut into the arteries. The howls disintegrated into pathetic gurgles and finally wheezes as the Aeronaut broke through their windpipe. The mercenary always took a little while to cut through the spinal column—spending fifteen seconds jamming his blade back and forth to get through the bone—but eventually the head would tumble free and the Aeronaut would move on to the next one.

Despite the utter insanity of the danger present, not one of Sallis' men cracked. They all then proceeded to die their useless deaths. The Aeronaut did not seem to be losing patience as he went through the line, but when he got to Lieutenant Racine, he seemed to be eager to try a different mode of attack, perhaps hoping to unnerve Sallis to the point of breaking.

It worked. The Aeronaut had stabbed his knife into Racine's eyes in quick succession, not far enough to kill her, but certainly enough to cause unimaginable pain. While Racine's mouth had been open in an ear-splitting shriek, the Aeronaut had slashed both of the woman's cheeks wide open. Then he jammed the blade into the back of Racine's throat, finally silencing her.

Now the Aeronaut's booted feet were slowly plodding over to where Sallis lay. Past the approaching figure, Sallis was able to discern a faint outline—a humanoid figure—one who was very large and standing quietly by in a shadowy corner. Decked completely in a full suit of heavy armor, it looked like and… was that a cloak? Sallis wondered who he was and why he had not spoken up yet. The human was only able to observe a flicker of silver near the figure's head before the Aeronaut knelt down and grabbed at his shoulder to roll him over, the metal weight lifting off his back at the same time.

"You've seen what your men's silence bought them," the Aeronaut taunted as he stood over Sallis, shoving the bloodied knife blade into the man's face for good measure, but not cutting into him yet. The mercenary's voice box was playing havoc with Sallis' ears by the way the pitch was sliding all over the place. "One after another and they still haven't talked. Now it's just you. Interested in trading your dignity for your life?"

Sallis had to suck in a breath as he was now able to see that whatever had been holding him down before was now skulking towards the back—a hulking, hunched-over, beast of alloy, steel, and hatred. It looked like a demonic cross between a reptile and a werewolf, only it was completely made of metal. _A… a cyborg?_

Floating his attention back to the Aeronaut, Sallis blankly stared as the Aeronaut gave a brief twitch of his head towards the behemoth. "Don't worry, we won't let Raucous have his way with you. Not yet. You'll find that cooperation is the only way to prolong your life."

The steel amalgamation named Raucous snarled in the background, now hidden from Sallis' view.

"I…" he stammered, "I don't know what it is you want in the vault. All I know is—"

"The passcode," the Aeronaut interrupted smoothly as he gently edged the point of his knife towards Sallis' eye, hovering it millimeters above the delicate organ. "That's all I want out of you. If you value having a heartbeat, you shouldn't need any time to consider."

"Kill me and you won't get anything," Sallis spat back, surprised at his own confidence.

"This isn't my first rodeo, partner," the Aeronaut hissed almost in glee. "There are ways to make stoic men like you talk. I've tried nearly every method imaginable. Every person has their pressure point. Do you think I won't be able to find yours?"

"You haven't been lucky so far. My men didn't give in."

"Your men weren't important. They only sufficed to make a point. To you."

Now Sallis' own fear was starting to come strongly into play. He could feel the sweat trickle down the sides of his face. He was already anticipating the bite of the blade, allowing the terror to creep into his heart. He imagined the blank embrace of death and the painful route it would take to get there. The Aeronaut seemed to sense this change and laughed cruelly.

"I'll make it simple, soldier boy. If you don't give me the passcode in the next five seconds, I'm going to use this knife to remove your testicles. One… two… three…"

"All right! All right!" Sallis nearly screamed as he had helplessly watched the knife graduate down to the area between his legs.

"Passcode, please," the Aeronaut beckoned as he continued to hold the knife near the sensitive area.

Sallis swallowed, his limbs now quaking quite heavily. "One—four—nine—two—nine—nine—one."

There was a gentle clack of heels on stone as someone beyond Sallis' range of vision walked over to the vault and punched the numbers in at a deliberate pace. Seven beeps followed by a triumphant trill and the thick grinding noise of gears as the locks to the vault slid aside. Sallis sagged in relief, his joy in being alive outweighing the stewing shame of his betrayal. His men would understand the sacrifice he had made for them. With any luck, they would not judge—

Two metal hands with claws for fingers then slammed Sallis' shoulders down to the ground. He yelled as his collarbone snapped like a twig and stared up into the gaping maw of Raucous. The cyborg had a dragon-like face. Two slit optics colored a fire-orange. A slight bump upon his "snout" akin to a horn. A long jaw filled with teeth filed to a razor's edge. Raucous made an unearthly roar as he kept Sallis pinned.

Sallis instinctively raised his head, realizing that the Aeronaut had not removed his knife from its precarious position. "Wait! _Wait!_" he screamed at the mercenary. "I gave you what you wanted! You have to let me go!"

If he had not been helmeted, Sallis would have seen the smile that graced the Aeronaut's face.

"You made me ask more than once," was the mercenary's only response before the knife stabbed down and Sallis screamed.

* * *

_Portskerra Base - Luna__  
Level B9_

Roahn kept the butt of her assault rifle firmly shoved into her shoulder as she took the stairs downward at a rapid pace, making sure to land on her heels so that she could roll through her steps, reducing the noise on the staircase. The pressure she exerted on the stock felt like it was causing a bruise underneath her suit. She had no choice but to ignore it. No telling what could pop out from under here.

The gravity had returned to normal levels since Roahn had been under the base's roof. Apparently Portskerra had been equipped with gravitational field generators to mimic the Earth's gravity. The wonders of mass effect technology. Despite the new increase in weight, she was glad that she was allowed her full mobility and reaction speed again.

Upon entering the facility, Roahn had been struck by a perverse sight. The bodies of Alliance marines, all in various states of dismemberment. Blood had collected on the ground in pools, splattered across the walls, and had been smeared across the floor in wide streaks.

One would have to be a total moron to not recognize the apparent parallel.

_Whoever was responsible for New York City is here now_, Roahn realized. Now she had the chance to avenge these two transgressions at once. Heavy stakes.

The perpetrators had been long gone from this specific area, but they had been thoughtful enough to leave a trail of carnage for Roahn to follow. Tenderly, she had crept through the halls of steel and concrete, dodging overhanging pipes ferrying noble gases and water that threatened to drop down to eye level while upping the brightness in her visor's display so that her eyes could easily cut through the dark. Pockmarked walls, more bodies, and the presence of blood etched a path throughout the twisting subterranean fortress. Roahn did make the unpleasant note that none of the bodies she came across had been unfamiliar to her. All of the casualties had been Alliance marines.

An outpost hidden in the city was one thing, but tearing through an entire military base without incurring any losses indicated that her foes were incredibly skilled. Suddenly Roahn felt a twinge of nerves jolt through her back. She gritted her teeth, hoping the feeling would subside. She needed all the concentration she could muster right now.

To her ever-increasing chagrin, the blood and bodies led to an elevator that Roahn quickly discovered was out of commission—the control panel had been smashed to pieces. To make matters worse, the building's directory told her that she was only on the third level of the basement. The placard next to it was stating that there were twenty-five levels in total.

Deep down she knew where she was going to have to wind up in the end.

So now Roahn found herself slowly taking the infinite staircase downward, her calves starting to ache, as she kept her weapon primed to fire. Her eyes tracked the ground in front of her, looking for any hints embedded in the flimsy metal steps, for any sign that she should get off at the next floor.

No such luck, the blood still dribbled further and further down, staining the matte-gray steel.

"Shit," Roahn muttered to herself as she rounded yet another corner to continue on her merry way down to the very bottom, cursing her bout of bad luck. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Shit."

The human words, unusual for most quarians to say, felt oddly cathartic on Roahn's tongue. The unique parlance had been incorporated into her vocabulary from hearing her father utter them perhaps too many times during her childhood, in addition to the human-centric media that she and her friends absorbed while growing up. Khelish insults were good and all, but they seemed too flowery to Roahn. Too proper, despite their connotation. Conversely, there was a succinctness with human insults, a fierce well of emotion that punctuated every syllable. They held _weight_.

_But why did the elevator have to be out?!_

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Roahn continued to whisper as she descended.

* * *

Several minutes later, Roahn finally came to the end of the line, greeted by a white and chipped decal that had been spray painted onto a concrete wall that stated simply: "Level B25." She dearly wanted to bend her knees and take a breather for a moment, but Roahn's rising adrenaline levels were hopping her up too much. She would not be able to relax. Not until this was over.

This floor looked exactly like all of the other floors that Roahn had passed on her way down. If she did not have a keen sense of direction she would be screwed. As it was, Roahn made sure to keep a mental map of the facility in her head, poring over the many changes in direction she had taken to get to this one spot.

Just then, as Roahn happened upon an intersection, she beheld a quick change in the lighting up ahead. Shadows flickered. Muddled noises.

Contact.

There was dark maintenance alcove immediately to her left. Roahn edged herself into it and hunkered down. The voices drew closer. Roahn repositioned herself in her little corner so that she was now kneeling, her rifle raised at an upward angle, ready to fire a burst into the next person's head that was nosy enough to look in here. She flicked her finger carefully towards the trigger. She did not want to fire the weapon. Not yet. She still had the advantage of surprise. No sense in wasting that if she still could use stealth.

Roahn held her breath as she finally saw two armored men walk by her position, so close she could almost reach out and touch them. They moved organically, had human proportions, and were decked out in glossy black armor. A new PMC group. An unfamiliar red and yellow patch adorned their shoulders—too far away for Roahn to make out. The unknown soldiers were undoubtedly speaking to each other, but their external voice modulators had some sort of audio scrambler installed—Roahn could only hear distorted gibberish. The men were most likely talking to themselves just fine over secured comms, it was just that Roahn did not have the ability to interpret their words right now.

The mercenaries then stopped just a few meters away from Roahn's hiding place. She nearly swore out loud. She could not move without them seeing her. Until they went away, she was trapped.

But then she remembered something, an old trick her mother had taught her. Cautiously booting up her omni-tool, Roahn cycled through the processes installed on her system until she came to the combat drone function. She set its combat systems to "passive" and quickly programmed in a preset route for it to take. With that completed, she hovered her thumb over the execute button.

"_Go, Chatika_," Roahn whispered as she flicked the switch.

Out of sight, Chatika vas Paus the combat drone, flickered to life in a series of pink-white blips that formed a perfect sphere, hovering inches off the ground. Chatika edged from the corner of the next hall down, only to speed back down the corridor with a faint whooshing noise.

One of the enemy troopers smacked his colleague on the arm and pointed down the hall. They had seen Chatika. With another distorted burst from their vocabulators, they both took off after the drone, but they would only get that glimpse of Chatika, because Roahn quickly deactivated it as soon as the mercenaries had run away.

"Good girl," she spoke to her omni-tool as she got back to her feet.

She made sure to check both directions of the corridor before stepping out into it, in case there were any more troopers lurking about. Deciding that it was probably a good idea if she sped things up a bit, Roahn carefully accelerated into a light jog, still landing on her heels, nearly silent.

Continuing to follow the blood trail, Roahn nearly groaned as she saw that she was approaching yet another staircase, but this one was only half the height of the other ones she had just traversed. The bigger issue were the two additional mercenaries standing at the foot of the stairs.

Roahn froze up at the top, certain that she was about to be discovered, but the mercenaries backs were turned to her. They were not even paying attention at all. She looked at her rifle, dumbfounded, as she weighed her options. Roahn ultimately stowed the weapon, choosing to quietly activate her omni-blade instead. Guns would really not be the best tool to use—in this confined space, shooting one off would be like sending up a flare to her location, and as far as she was concerned, she was surrounded by enemies.

The blade hummed a burnt orange as it hovered a centimeter above her left wrist. Hardlight surfaces extended into a fine point just over a foot in length, atomically sharp and blisteringly deadly, if one knew how to handle such a weapon. Roahn held her breath as she slowly took the stairs one every five seconds, keeping her nerves on edge as she prepared to strike.

_Pop_. She had tread on the wrong stair section.

The mercenaries both turned. _Fuck!_

Roahn's next moves were clumsy, but fast. Leaping past the last of the steps, Roahn brought her left arm back before shunting it forward in a massive strike. The omni-blade passed through the man's armor and chest like cutting through warm butter. The point of the blade burst from his back in a flurry of angry red sparks. Heat swam from the wound. Roahn felt the man's heart pop. He fell immediately.

She turned to face the next soldier, her eyes ablaze. The man had not even gotten his weapon up yet. Sensing an opportunity, Roahn made a calculated slash. The mercenary's rifle was cleaved in two in the next second. Dumbly, the man hefted the useless pieces in his hands for a second before Roahn cut again, making a gash in the tendons of his right leg. The second man collapsed to join his cohort.

Roahn was there to catch him. Her arm reached out and grabbed at the collar of the man's armor. She pressed him against the closest wall and angled her blade towards the swell of his throat.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice ragged and fierce. "What are you doing here?"

To her surprise, the man began to laugh.

"You'll find out, quarian. But not from me."

Then a shuddering jolt rippled through the man's body. A muffled detonation resounded. Roahn's natural instinct was to let go of her prisoner. He slid down to the ground, now completely limp. His helmet still obscured his features, but Roahn was now able to observe the faint wisps of smoke curling from underneath the covering, along with a few rivulets of blood that were now slowly dripping, nearly invisible against the black undersuit.

Roahn nudged the body with her boot. No reaction. Incredulous, she reached down to try and pry the helmet off of the man, against her better judgment, but ceased when she saw the first hint of a reddish pulp slowly ooze from under the headgear. Gore dribbled onto the man's chestplate. Roahn let go of the corpse as she realized that the man's face had been completely blown off, though the helmet hid the worst of the damage.

Pulse detonators. Roahn had heard of such tech before. Her father had told her all about how Cerberus had implanted them in their own operatives to keep them from talking during the Reaper War. But those devices were crude—they had a larger explosive radius that had the capability to completely blow a head apart. The damage was more localized here. Perhaps the detonators had only been embedded into the helmet and angled towards the face, or the tech itself had been upgraded to only affect the wearer. At the end, Roahn knew she could not dwell on it for much longer, though she was rapidly adding more and more questions to her already expansive list.

Somehow she doubted that this place held all the answers.

Looking to see at least some of them solved today, Roahn had no choice but to keep going. She left the bodies where they lay as she had no time to find a suitable hiding place to stash them.

Another half-staircase finally deposited her into a room that was decidedly different from the others she had traversed throughout the base. The ceiling had to be twenty meters high. The lights on this level were not bright enough to illuminate the dark heavens above. Two rows of unfinished pillars, the unpainted concrete and bald wiring exposed like a skeletal limb, surrounded by steel rivets, flanked the entrance to a circular opening at the far end, one large enough to fit a fully armored krogan warlord.

A vault door. Just like the one in New York City.

The space beyond the gigantic partition was a blinding white sheet. Roahn could not peer past the threshold from this distance. She lowered her rifle a tad as she cautiously approached, squinting her eyes as she did so as she sought to penetrate the myopia that the circular sun-like opening presented.

Then she noticed the bodies. Around twelve in total, but five had been laid out in somewhat of a line. Almost like they were organized for a summary execution. The fact that the five bodies were missing their heads confirmed that it had been _exactly_ for the purposes of an execution. Roahn felt her stomach give a heave—her digestion would continue to give her problems as she noticed the mutilated corpse of a woman next to the decapitated five (she still had her head, but her face had been completely carved up with a knife) and then she noticed the final body, whose throat had been slit from ear to ear… and who had a very large pool of blood collected from between his legs.

Simple brutality. The same callousness that Roahn had seen just yesterday.

"What the hell…?" Roahn muttered out loud as she got to within five meters of the vault door. This was in no way a coincidence. Two secret Alliance vaults being robbed within consecutive days? No, this was planned. Someone had inside knowledge of these places, perhaps of even more. They knew the Alliance's weak spots, they knew of the value these vaults contained.

Yet Roahn did not. What could the Alliance possibly be keeping down here? What could be so valuable?

And where were the perpetrators? There was only one way out of here: the staircase that she had just descended. The elevator was also out, so no one could have used that as a means of escape.

But that had to mean… the real enemies had not yet left.

They were in this room. With her.

There was the sudden roaring noise, almost like a grenade had gone off next to her ear, and Roahn looked up just in time to see a dark figure plummet from the ceiling. Roahn dived out of the way just in time and the intruder landed hard enough on the floor to crack the concrete. The newcomer quickly turned, two polished chrome submachine guns of a custom make in each hand. He immediately began to open fire on Roahn, the barrels of his guns ripping the air apart as the hypersonic projectiles screamed towards the quarian. Roahn tried to maneuver behind a nearby pillar but she took two shots to the chest. Her shields held, but it felt like she had just been slugged with a powerful fist.

Wheezing, Roahn sagged against the pillar, hoping for a second to catch her breath. Just those two bullets were enough to drain her shields by a quarter! This mercenary was using high-velocity ammo in his submachine guns, which had been customized to handle such taxing ammunition.

Her foe briefly knelt before springing off the ground again, his jetpack igniting once more and filling the air with the pungent scent of rocket fuel. Two wings popped out with control thrusters, black and osseous, sending the mercenary flying. Orienting himself parallel to the ground, the winged combatant fired as he passed by Roahn's position. She got out of the way as most of the pillar shattered a second later, but a single round scraped by her arm. Her shields, back up to full strength, now drained an eighth. She yowled in pain and grabbed at her arm, already dreading the bruise that would be forming there.

"_A quarian?_" the mercenary's voice floated down, unseen. "_Not the sort of backup we were expecting_."

"Oh, yeah?" Roahn snarled as she racked the slide of her rifle, slotting a clip into place. "Most people have an unfortunate habit of underestimating me."

The mercenary then laughed. "_Good to hear_."

From out of nowhere, the winged attacker screamed out from the shadows, smoke trailing from his jetpack as he fired while flying forward. Roahn answered with a few bursts from her own weapon, but the man gave an elegant twist in midair, missing Roahn's burst. More rounds smacked across her hip, though, and her shields angrily sparked. Becoming more and more enraged, Roahn roared as she shredded the air by filling it with superheated rounds in all directions. Concrete became dust. Metal turned into liquid. She could not hit the mercenary though, who zipped to and fro in the air almost without a care.

Then the room turned quiet as Roahn heard the jetpack wind down. The man must be hiding somewhere in the ceiling, she figured. Ejecting a spent clip onto the floor, Roahn crept to another pillar, keeping her head on a swivel, her breathing fighting to escalate.

"Stop prolonging the inevitable!" Roahn barked, her confidence temporarily overriding her fear. "You're not going to escape this place. Not after what you've done. Let's not drag this on longer than necessary."

More laughter from above. "_Aren't you bold! You've yet to even land a hit on me_."

"I'm all warmed up now. Want to see?"

"_Ah, quarian, if you only knew what is in store for you. Still, you might be right—_"

Noise exploded in Roahn's ears and she winced, glancing to the right just in time to see the mercenary fly out from between a row of columns, perform a sideways somersault and land a powerful kick to her chin.

Roahn flew backward with a grunt. Her rifle sailed out of her hands and tumbled just a few feet away. She landed on her side heavily. Her jaw was throbbing—even her helmet could not have softened that blow.

The man then landed in front of her in a kneeling position before standing straight up. This was the first time that Roahn could get a good look at him. Polished black combat armor. Spindly metal wings. Humanoid shape. Magnifying optics continually focusing and refocusing upon his helmet, the two of them sticking out like comical eyes. The mercenary spun his custom submachine guns deftly in his hands before depositing them into their holsters in a single fluid motion.

"—let's not drag this out longer than necessary," the helmeted man finished. His voice was constantly shifting in tone, throwing Roahn off. A constantly modifying voice filter. "But when you're up against the Aeronaut, you'll soon find that the tempo of the fight was never in your control to begin with."

Pain lanced all around her left side, but Roahn could ignore it for now. Howling, Roahn leapt to her feet, her omni-blade out, ready to skewer the Aeronaut. Her foe, however, was ready for the attack. The Aeronaut yanked one of his submachine guns free once more and held it up to deflect the blade. Energy sizzled against the anodized metal, not cutting through. Roahn's eyes widened in shock. The Aeronaut had laced omni-resistant alloys into his guns.

"Oh, you're feisty," the Aeronaut chuckled. He savagely swung a fist, planting it into Roahn's gut. Roahn's breath expelled with a whoof as she folded in half, her omni-blade deactivating with a whimper. Spittle coated the inside of her helmet. She could not breathe.

The Aeronaut raised a knee and cracked Roahn on the chin. Again, she fell to the floor, stars exploding in her eyes.

"Now _I'm_ all warmed up," the Aeronaut said around what had to be a smile under his own helmet. "Want to see what that entails?"

Before Roahn could answer, the Aeronaut raised his arm and depressed a hidden trigger. A line of razor-wire shot out from a hidden muzzle in the mercenary's wrist. The end of the wire sprang out, faint electrical pulses causing it to quiver and curl. The wire wrapped around Roahn's neck in a flash, but the quarian had just enough time to throw up her own arm as protection, but the wire coiled around that limb as well, pinning her hand to her throat.

The Aeronaut touched a control and soon he was rocketing up into the air again. Roahn only had a brief moment of panic at seeing the razor-wire quickly wring itself upward in rapid jerks before the line suddenly went taut. Roahn let out a gagging noise and felt her legs leave the floor as the Aeronaut dragged her up high. Burn marks seared into her vision as the wire around her neck and wrist uncomfortably cut off her blood flow. The sharp cord was cutting into her skin underneath the suit. Roahn could already feel her blood begin to weep. The floor fell away from her at an alarming pace, the wind whooshing by her as the Aeronaut lifted her higher and higher.

With her free hand, Roahn scrambled to lift the pistol at her holster free. The gloved tips of her fingers brushed the grip of the heavy weapon repeatedly, never finding purchase. _Come on… come on!_

But just as she managed to unfasten the snap, she heard the Aeronaut speak once more.

"Meet you at the bottom."

Then he cut the wire.

Roahn's stomach lurched wildly as gravity overcame her. Her eyes, terrified behind her visor, reflected a nameless panic. Her mouth opened slightly, but she did not scream. She tumbled through the shadows, through the smoke, for what seemed like an eternity. The ground rushed up to meet her.

There was a snap. Roahn cried out. Everything momentarily flashed white.

Then the world came back into her view, slowly, dream-like as if she had woken from a deep slumber. There was no pain. Her body felt weird, almost fuzzy, but she was not afflicted by agony. The impact had not even registered. Cold sweat stuck to her brow. Roahn dearly wanted to wipe her face. In the dark recesses of her mind, she could discern a chilling threshold slowly creep onto her. Beginnings of shock. Was she paralyzed? How badly was she injured? Her enviro-suit was giving her nothing but error readings.

As she lay in the blood of the humans, Roahn's vision finally pulled back in to focus on an object just outside of arm's reach. Her pistol. It had dislodged itself from her holster when she landed. A directive seared into her brain: _get it_.

Roahn's fingers of her left hand twitched towards the weapon. Her body was sluggish, like it did not want to respond. Groaning, Roahn summoned all the strength she could find and tried to pathetically flop in the gun's direction. It worked, for she twitched forward about an inch. A fresh source of pain now began to spike near her lower back. It felt like she was being impaled. Trying to shove out the discomfort, Roahn surged forward another inch once more, then another, and another, until her hand could almost reach out and grip the pistol. Everything inside her was throbbing. Dark and stormy. A red haze was consuming her. She tasted blood on the back of her tongue.

Get. The. Gun.

_Almost… almost…_

Then the floor in front of her disintegrated into violent flurries of concrete splinters and shards, chewed up by the payload of the powerful submachine guns. The impact clusters moved in a straight line under the spell of the Aeronaut's aim, searing forward to chew through the strong and stable floors of the base…

…and the fragile skin and bone of Roahn's left hand.

She could only watch as her hand was torn apart in a quick and bloody burst. Concussive ripples maimed the muscle and flesh, causing it to rip into unintelligible pieces. The color red splattered onto the ground. Her three fingers dangled from her ruined hand, tendons and sinew the only things holding them against her.

The entire limb went numb. Roahn froze in a panic as a brief but unimaginable swell of pain announced its presence, only to abruptly fade before it could overstay its welcome. A cold and clammy sensation doused her—like she had been dunked in a wintery lake. Already she could feel the suit's inner partition seals secure themselves around her wrist—with her suit breached, automated portions would immediately move to isolate the area in order to prevent fatal reactions from particles in the air from occurring. But the wound continued to hurt, fiery embers against her weeping flesh.

Roahn shivered and curled up into a ball, cradling her wounded hand as it continued to spill blood onto her suit. The Aeronaut landed back down between her and the vault door, submachine gun twirling carelessly upon a nimble finger.

"A dozen trained Alliance marines and somehow you put up the more spirited fight," the mercenary said. "Intriguing, but a waste of talent. Still, we have a little time to kill. I hope you can humor me."

A buzzing presence in Roahn's sixth sense hinted that the two of them were not alone. A new penumbra fell over her and Roahn weakly turned over to view the intruder. She was agog at what she saw.

A cyborg. One unlike Roahn had ever seen before. It was oddly elegant in its form. Beautiful, even. Pure white and gleaming metal curved in wide arcs upon its body. Its legs were stilts, the "shins" stood ramrod straight until it met the digitigrade joint whereupon the metal laced upward in a graceful curve. Its hips were wide and angular, and its chest cavity was partially empty—more metal struts interlaced here in a spider-web-like construction. Angled shoulders began for four double-jointed arms, each one ending with a thin claw-like grip. Polished steel seemed to look like it was folded about the thing's head. It possessed no neck that Roahn could discern but from the facial area an optical assembly jutted outward, given a limited degree of motion. Despite it possessing legs, the cyborg was miraculously floating above the ground by a few inches. Mass effect field generators had been implanted into this thing's body. It glided through the air, deathly quiet and graceful.

No attempt had been made to give this cyborg any anthropomorphic features. The optics were colored a blinding xenon blue—the topmost optic was rectangular shaped, the bottommost one a circle, and there were two inward facing brackets in between, also emitting the same color. It looked like a shining insect and there was a distinct humming noise that seemed to emanate from the cyborg's very body.

Then a new presence crawled from out of the industrial deep. Low snarls and the scrape of cold metal on roughened concrete. Another cyborg.

This one was just as unique as the first but nowhere near as extravagant, upon closer inspection.

The second cyborg alternated between creeping forward on all fours and walking on their legs, albeit in an extremely hunched position. Their breathing was a hellish rasp, something that Roahn would figure as animal-like. Their body seemed to be an odd collection of armor and severe body modifications, many of panels not at all finding a similar theme between them. Carbon-laced plates protected the cyborg's abdomen and neck. Scratched heavy ship armor was fastened over its chest. Stainless steel flex pipes poked from gaps near the thing's shoulder and collar, liquid and gas hissing through them. Heat bled from the cyborg's forearms and mouth area. The head was snouted, horned, and a thin jaw filled with sharpened square teeth glowed faintly red. The same color had been extended to its eyes, which were tiny slits.

It was this crazed-looking cyborg that crept up to the Aeronaut, who acknowledged it with a brief nod of his head.

"Meet Raucous," he said to Roahn. "Not exactly the most talkative fellow among us. Brain injury took care of that. Don't worry, I won't give you over to him. He deals with his victims quick but without a certain… subtlety. Tears them to pieces with his limbs. And his teeth. No, someone like you? The knife might be more preferable."

Now Roahn felt herself being hoisted up. Spindly metal fingers grasped at her forearms, pulling her into a T-pose as she continued to kneel upon the ground. Something in Roahn's back ground together, producing a new surge of pain. It was the other cyborg, Roahn's mind swam. The ornate one. Its limbs held Roahn in place and a soft buzzing noise resounded in her eardrums as she realized that the cyborg had lowered its head down to Roahn's level.

"I am the Cardinal," it spoke. The cyborg's voice had a dramatic gravitas to it. Light and angelic, the Cardinal's words were so delicate they could have been made out of the thinnest ice. "And I speak for the lord Aleph. For your attempt to interfere in his destined work, you are to be executed at once. Such troublesome meddling from a creature like you. The Tranquility will not discriminate in the face of your arrogance. You will not know the wonders that will bequeath themselves unto this galaxy. You are ignorant, quarian, and therefore will pay the price."

"And I will finish what I started," the Aeronaut said smugly as he now walked towards the restrained Roahn, a knife now in his hand. He placed the tip of the blade gently against her neck, testing the pressure as if to tease or to make a decision on where to put it first. Roahn trembled, already fearing the cold metal bite and the rush of air against her skin.

The tip of the knife then lightly dragged itself down Roahn's body, lightly shearing the fabric trappings but not making any cuts. It traveled across her chest before stopping near her abdomen. The Aeronaut paused and tilted his head up as if he was finalizing his decision.

"This is better than the alternative," he said. "Trust me."

The Aeronaut drew his arm back, ready to slice his blade across Roahn's belly and to spill her guts onto the floor. Roahn tensed her body and was about to scream as she saw the steel point glint sinisterly.

"**No**," a dark voice uttered from beyond.

In the next instant, the mercenary's fist was encased by a translucent sphere of brimming azure energy. The knife was violently yanked out of his grip by an unseen force and sailed across the room to be caught by a heavy, gauntleted hand. Immediately, the Aeronaut leapt up, his posture now intimidated. The attentions of the other cyborgs similarly perked as a black silhouette began to stride from the brightened vault entrance.

Two meters tall. Anthropoid shape. Fluid motions in its movements—strangely organic. Broad shouldered and powerful. It easily dwarfed everyone in the room. Whatever it was, it looked like it could crush planets.

A flapping cloak fell down upon the figure, shadowing its body. Silver armor had been placed down over the cloak, thick and heavy. A bulky hardshell suit embraced its wearer, providing a new paradigm of protection and strength the body had not already unlocked. They had an odd presence: strange, dark, a well of hidden power. Its mannerisms were calm and collected—not at all arrogance, but an absence of emotion entirely.

A helmet surrounded its head completely. The rounded visor—akin to those worn by deep space combat pilots—made up the entirety of the covering's form. Flat and gray, the open-view visor itself was the color of a powerful storm cloud. It had very little reflectivity and was segmented, made up of disparate pieces of the same glass-like covering.

Other than the knife gently held in an enormous hand, they had no weapon. Roahn could not explain why, but her blood ran cold at the very same time her fear gave an eager nudge. Panic was starting to take hold now. What kind of hell had she fallen into?

The new arrival, once they finally approached, stopped just short of where Roahn was kneeling. Roahn could see, through her blinding anxiety, that deference had fallen upon everyone else in the presence of this mysterious person. Their leader. The monster.

"Sire…" the Cardinal started to say, "…we didn't know—"

The large figure made the tiniest of motions with just a finger and the Cardinal was silenced. Still not speaking, he wordlessly passed the knife back to the Aeronaut grip-first, his movements slow and calculated.

Then he spoke once more.

"**You are not to kill this one**."

The voice conjured images of a most violent form for Roahn. Twisting and curling tendrils of horrific nightmares. The words felt like the color black upon her. Choking and consumed with rage. It was indeed the voice of a monster. The most hellish voice imaginable.

Silence fell amongst the group for a few seconds. The Aeronaut then stepped forward, confused. "Lord Aleph, I'm not sure I understand."

The strange individual called Aleph briefly knelt down to the ground, extending a hand. Between two armored fingers, he plucked a stray bit of Roahn's flesh that had been shot off her earlier. The piece was still wet with blood and it stained the silver of Aleph's fingers as he rolled the lump back and forth.

As he did so, Aleph looked up at Roahn, his helmet mere inches from her. She could see nothing past the thickly translucent covering, but there was the bluish hint of her own visor barely reflected in his visage. Silence passed between them and Roahn fell into a comatose stillness as she could _feel_ Aleph's gaze sinking into her and rotting her from the inside out. Her wounds grew calm for but a moment only to strike back in force once Aleph stood back up, causing her to wince.

"**Her potential intrigues me. She has her use beyond these walls**."

"But sir, she's _seen_ us—"

"**Inconsequential.** **That is not to be your concern.**"

"But why _her?!_" the Aeronaut wagged the knife back in Roahn's direction. "Why are we going to let her live?"

Aleph paused a beat as he finally turned his head towards the Aeronaut. "**She can lead us to the conglomerate, though her capabilities will be latent. Such a legacy cannot be discounted, Aeronaut. It commands deference. I now command you to honor it.**"

The Cardinal then raised her head as she hoped to catch Aleph's attention. Aleph provided her with his gaze after a few seconds, his expression completely invisible.

"Sire, to reach the threshold you denoted to even obtain the conglomerate, we will require a significant sample from her. Will you allow our leave to procure it?"

_Sample?_ Roahn wondered.

There was a slight hiss that emitted into the air, but it could not be determined if it came from Aleph's vocabulator. With a quick turn of his heel, the massive person made a fluid motion towards the door before his final words of the day slowly filtered back to them.

"**Take it.**"

Roahn was still not sure what was being discussed, but she knew that she did not like it one bit. She could no longer feel the throb of her hand anymore even though she felt liquid continue to drip from the wound.

The Aeronaut flipped his knife in his hand as he watched Aleph leave and he gave a shrug, as if suddenly struck by a thought. "What the hell, we don't have long, anyway. Raucous, you do the honors. Just don't make it fatal."

Fatal. Suddenly Roahn realized what the Cardinal meant by "sample." She felt her left limb—the one with her ruined hand—being extenuated even further from the magnificent cyborg's grip as she realized this fact. She started to hyperventilate. Her lips mouthed the word "_No_" over and over again, but she could not summon the breath to have it voiced.

Raucous crept forward, his jaw unlocking, showing his rigid teeth that were already beginning to glow white hot from the thermal emitters embedded into his metal mouth. Sickly waves of heat warped through the air and a rippling audio noise rumbled from Raucous' throat.

"I would advise not to panic," the Aeronaut said with disinterest. "That will make everything so much worse."

Before Roahn could respond, Raucous struck.

She never had time to prepare. She could not have willed herself to forget the pain that completely shredded her from head to toe. Roahn screamed as the superheated teeth bit into her arm, just above the elbow. There was a terrible crunch and blood exploded around Raucous' teeth. Roahn's mind left her in that instant. The cyborg's jaw shifted and Raucous bit through skin, bone, and flesh in less than a second. Roahn felt something fall from her body. She opened her eyes and saw an arm lying at her knees. Her first inane thought was wondering who it belonged to. Then she could see smoke slithering into the air and the stump of what used to be her arm, charred flesh surrounding it as blood lazily dripped from scorched capillaries.

Everything grayed out for Roahn. The Cardinal released her grip on the quarian and Roahn, listless, finally flopped to the ground. She saw her arm being picked up by a spindly hand (as a trophy?), but she did not have the strength to care. Twitching and making moans, Roahn meekly stirred upon the cold floor of the basement, warm blood slowly spreading in a pool from where she lay.

As blackness finally began to consume her, Roahn swore that she was able to hear the rippling effects of automatic gunfire from far away. There were distant voices… of many colors. Reinforcements? A rescue party? A silly thought. Still, Roahn figured, it was nice that her mind was able to conjure a smidgen of hope before the end came upon her. It would make the transition to the other side so much more satisfying.

A peaceful numbness coddling her, Roahn finally passed out.

* * *

**A/N: Things will calm down for a while after this chapter, so don't worry if you're already bored of battle scenes because they won't be showing up for a bit. I've got more surprises to keep you all entertained on the horizon anyway.**

**It's all about the surprise.**

**Playlist:**

**Battle on the Lunar Plain**  
**"This Will Only Hurt Forever"**  
**Clint Mansell**  
**Mute (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Alliance Torture**  
**"Arrival"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Overlord (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack**

**Aeronaut Fight/Dismembered**  
**"Free Fall"**  
**Lorne Balfe**  
**Mission Impossible: Fallout (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	4. Chapter 4: Incisions

"_Make sure to manage your inventory regularly. If you neglect to do so and keep accumulating more items, you will reach your inventory limit of 150 pieces before you know it. And yes, this does include mods. If you don't, you'd better have some free time available because it is going to be a long and frustrating process in removing any excess weapons or upgrades in a UI system so dense that, in all honesty, we could have designed better. You'll see then that you should have listened to this hint in the first place._

_Oh, and expect to repeat this process at least three times during a normal playthrough. Have fun!"_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

Bits and pieces.

Flickers of memories. Reflections of a world unreachable. Hazy eyes clouded her vision, obscuring the reality of her existence. Milky and blurry, everything became awash with an ethereal glow. Time was dunked in molasses, excruciatingly slowed, but her perception jittered inconsistently, tuning in and out at random.

Darkness. Blood. A basement on Luna. Cold and alone. Warped and flashing strobe lights. Her own screams of agony.

In and out. In and out. Consciousness flowed through her like she was a sieve. The authenticity of what was defined as real was no longer of concern to her. She was well past such things. Right now, the only thing that was fueling her body was the universal, primal, and unconscious will to live. Every heartbeat resounded—three pumps pounding in her chest. It never left her, even as the blackness consistently bashed her over the head time after time again, she was always soothed by the beating of her heart.

But in time, the beats all blended together. Delirious and in pain, she tried to call out, but no one answered.

Either that, or she could not scream.

* * *

"…_patient: quarian. Age: twenty-six. Admitted to Huerta General on four, twenty-six, fourteen. Critical injury sustained during combat. Amputation of humerus one and one-quarter inches above the left elbow. Patient's enviro-suit has automatically sealed against the worst of the damage, but decontamination procedures are in progress…"_

"…_is now in a supine position. Safety straps in place. Adequate IV sedation administered by anesthesiologist. 3.2 ccs of a 1:1 mixture also injected: 1% lidocaine and 0.5% Marcaine to serve as a digital block. Participants have undergone extensive decon and will begin immediately…"_

"…_bundle has been clamped and trimmed. Humerus has also been smoothed with a rasp. Pulling sheared nerves at length. Will retract proximally…"_

"…_we have good bleeding from tissues. Electrocautery proving successful. Fascia around the wound has been interrupted. Will require closing with additional samples. Vitals are holding at normal. No signs of infection or allergic reaction. Sutures expected to proceed without interruption. Will prepare clean room for recovery. Expect no complications…"_

* * *

Her eyes finally opened.

The first thing she could perceive was white. Blinding. Nurturing. Healing.

She took a breath. She was alive.

Roahn blinked once. Then she blinked again. Her surroundings slowly diffused back into focus, but she had to keep squinting from the sheer intensity of the light. Her throat felt dry and scratchy. She lightly coughed. Yes, definitely alive.

Now starting to come to terms that she had survived her brush with death, she breathed in heavily, trying to fill her lungs and drink deeply from the air that surrounded her. There was a definite chill on her tongue. Breath wafted across her face with a gentle whisper.

She was not helmeted.

Momentarily alarmed, Roahn's hand—her right one—shot up to her forehead. The skin of her palm met the skin of her face. Her panic quickly slithered away once she had come to the logical determination that she was not at risk at developing any reactions to the air as she had been lying, completely sacked out, for what must have been at least many hours and she did not feel any particular torments of the sort that afflicted her.

Roahn's fingers moved downward from her forehead and quickly ran into a warm and plastic covering. A feeling of suction around her nose and mouth was now apparent. She traced the foreign material that clung around her face, finding to be triangle-shaped. A breathing mask—a hose snaked out of sight towards a machine just over in the corner. Something in Roahn's mind relaxed. So she was not completely exposed after all. She may be out of her enviro-suit, but the mask over her face was a proper failsafe to protect against environmental hazards in the air that not even a hospital could fully protect her from. From the corners of her vision, she was able to tell that the mask was colored a dark gray, almost matching the hue of her skin, but it obscured enough of her features that, if one were to look directly at her now, they would only be able to see her fierce eyes and her stringy black hair as it fell around her shoulders. Not enough to get a proper idea of her full face.

Now that she could properly see, Roahn was able to observe that she was in a bed, flimsy white sheets pulled up to the bottom of her ribs, and that a protective plastic bubble that functioned as a malleable contamination barrier had been erected around her bed with a radius of up to a few feet away. Two pumps outside of the bubble quietly filtered in fresh air from outside, providing her with the draft that she had initially felt upon her face. She picked at the thin baby-blue gown that she had been unknowingly clad in while she had been passed out—soft fabric that lightly fell upon her body. From this position, only her upper torso was apparent from the outside.

It took Roahn only a few more seconds to determine that she had awoken inside a hospital. She _had_ to be in a hospital. Where else could she had been expected to recover? Not a Defender med bay on one of their frigates, that was for sure. She knew that the facilities the Defenders had ready within their ships were not equipped to handle serious injuries to quarians, anyway. That meant that she had been ferried over to the nearest medical station that did have such capabilities.

And where was the closest one of that kind? The Citadel.

The room itself was barebones, sparsely furnished. A rack of machines stood wheeled at an angle towards her, beeping all kinds of noises and flashing a bevy of unintelligent stats in her face. The air tube for her breathing mask had been hooked into one of these machines, as did the wires from a little clamp around her rightmost pointer finger—a sensor which read her pulse and doubly functioned as an oximeter. An IV had been inserted into the back of her hand, cool liquid pressed through the tiny tube, and another hose at a vein gently pumped in fresh blood.

Next to the rack of medical machines, a nightstand was the only actual furnishing within the bubble. Her mother's _sehni_, folded and pressed, lay gently atop her enviro-suit, which had been draped over the stand. Her scuffed helmet and visor lay on their sides, staring facelessly back at her, reflecting her image in warped silver and blue hues. A vidscreen lay beyond the plastic partition of her bubble, its face slightly warped from the wavy and transparent surface. Artificial sunlight streamed in from the poster windows to her right through its translucent patterns, warming the room. The windows themselves were semitransparent—Roahn could not see out of them completely. Still, despite the opaqueness, the heat promised by the openings had a calming effect, reassuring her that she was in good hands.

Hands…

As Roahn stared at her right hand, a shock quickly overcame her and she frantically looked down to the left, already in the process of moving her left hand upward in an instinctive gesture.

Except there was no left hand. There was no left forearm, either. All that remained was a stump, swathed in sterile bandaging, nestled helplessly against her body. Dumbly, Roahn just stared at the injury. Her scar. Her ruination. An empty space with where there should have been a limb to occupy it. But now there was just… nothing.

In disbelief, Roahn tried to move her fingers from her missing hand. Fateful synapses streamed to broken nerves, firing off misgiving signals. There was a blank spot in Roahn's brain that she just could not comprehend. If she concentrated hard enough, it _felt_ like she was ever so slightly wiggling her fingers. Just… the tiniest movement! A little wiggle! But it had to be impossible. What could she move? The fantasy in her mind could not overcome the gravity of the situation.

Now she was broken.

The pain of the bite still lingered, though, giving Roahn a wince. She could remember the very sensation that had occurred when Raucous had bit down upon her. When she had felt her arm separate from her body, it had been the most excruciating pain she had ever experienced. Nothing else would be able to compare to it. Her violent red color of her own blood had left burn marks in her eyes. Lying in it. Dying in it. Roahn's breath trickled from her lungs now as a sob fought to near itself, but she suppressed it at the last moment, causing her eyes to slightly water.

As she was thinking about that terrible moment and of the snippets of voices that had intruded on her while she had been lying unconscious between then and now, the door had opened to her room over on the left, and two men walked in: a human and a turian. The turian she recognized right off the bat: Major Rethius. And out of uniform, too. An interesting surprise. She quickly jolted upright, willing the traces of her tears away, and giving a final sniffle before her expression was successfully masked.

The human, judging by his lab coat, was a doctor. An elderly gentlemen, with receding gray hair but a kindly disposition. He exuded a calm presence that left Roahn at ease. She found herself relaxing already. She gave not a whit that two strangers (practically) were gazing upon her with a visor in the way, despite the breathing mask that covered most of her features. The helmet she usually wore could be nothing more than a prideful barrier at times, though, and Roahn was not feeling in much of a state to be particular about her appearance right about now, especially since she was nearly a hundred percent positive that the doctor had seen her naked while she had been out cold upon an operating table.

Always be polite to the one who wields the scalpel.

"_Where_…" Roahn began, but was startled to find that her voice was rusty and hoarse. She licked her lips and gave a slight cough, "…where am I?"

"You're on the Citadel, Lieutenant Commander," the doctor said, confirming Roahn's initial suspicion, as he took a chair from outside the partition and sat upon it, with Rethius claiming one for himself a few seconds later. "Huerta Memorial. The seventeenth floor, to be precise. My name is Doctor Cameron. I've no doubt that you probably have lots of questions, which is perfectly normal for people in your situation. But first I feel that, before I let the weight of your queries get to you, I'm pleased to let you know that your surgery _was_ successful, with no problems encountered, and that you're expected to make a full recovery within the next few days."

Successful. Roahn gave a withering glance at her stump, a silent rebuke. Full recovery.

What a crock of shit.

Roahn closed her eyes as she took her time in drawing in her next breath. "How long was I out?"

"We don't have an exact timestamp—"

"Just give me the estimate," Roahn slightly snapped, letting her impatience get the best of her.

To his credit, the doctor did not seem to take offense. Irate patients were definitely not a new concept for him to come up against. "You were reported unconscious for at least twenty minutes. As I understand it from Major Rethius, you were found in shock and nearly dead in an underground base on… Luna, do I have that right? It took them only an hour to transport you here safely from the moon, but by then you had fallen into a coma. You had suffered enough blood loss that your body took drastic steps to save your life."

"As you can imagine," Dr. Cameron continued, "a coma is a serious medical event that required our immediate attention. Your injury—the loss of your arm—was secondary and in stable condition by the time you arrived on our premises. We used deep-brain-stimulation, firing off electrode impulses from your implants, to bring you back to consciousness. Fortunately, you were not out long enough to suffer any severe brain damage. There might be some nervous atrophy that had accrued that we are unable to detect right now, but we expect any difficulties you may encounter to be minor. Under the circumstances, this would be a challenging prospect for anyone to pull through. We were all extremely fortunate that you got to us when you did. Any longer and your coma may have been indefinite."

_Yeah… lucky me_, Roahn thought. To her horrified realization after the sentence passed through her head, Roahn felt awful about her perceived behavior towards the doctor. He had only been trying to help, nothing more. The rebuke, if she had voiced it, would be hardly helpful, much less self-serving, and Cameron _was_ part of the team that helped to practically bring her back to life. Why should he receive any of her disdain?

"I…" she swallowed. She was never very good at this part. Showing appreciation. "What you've done for me… I couldn't be more grateful."

Cameron absorbed the praise good-naturedly—a gentle nod merely graced his features. "After we managed to 'reawaken' you, so to speak, we then set to work on repairing the damage your arm attained. Our efforts on that front were completely successful. We cauterized all of the sheared capillaries and used medi-gel to seal the wound after the edge of your humerus bone was smoothened free of shards. The bandage around the wound can most likely come off by tomorrow. But further steps can still be discussed, even during the healing process. You're received a grievous blow, but luckily medical technology has ways of helping people in your position return entirely back to normal. There are two choices that you can make regarding your recovery."

"Choices?"

"We prep you for limb transplant as soon as possible. If we manage to fast-track the lab, we can have a cloned limb prepped for you within a week. The limb itself will be laser-scanned from your remaining arm and redesigned to fit your proportions. Once the limb has been fully grown in our nutrient tanks, then we will put you under and reattach the arm."

Roahn chewed her lip as she thought about the prospect. Cloned limbs were pretty much the standard for dealing with amputations in this capacity. The procedure was not at all radical—patients enjoyed a 97.8% success rate if they elected to undergo such surgery.

And yet…

Cameron appraised Roahn thoughtfully before he spoke again, sensing hesitation from the quarian. "The second option we can accomplish nearly immediately, if that is your desire."

"I'm listening," Roahn affirmed.

"We fit you for a prosthesis. Top of the line. You will continue to enjoy full functionality. But there is a downside if we decide to pursue that route: you will suffer from phantom pain as a result of damage to the nerves in your arm. The severity and degree of which we will not be able to predict. Many have described the pain as shooting, burning, throbbing, boring, or even stabbing sensations. And, Lieutenant Commander, I must stress that this is a sensation that we don't have a cure for. Your neurological pathways have been altered as a result of the loss of your arm. Your brain will give you false signals now that the organization of your cortical network has been interrupted."

Roahn was half-listening at this point, but gave her chin a thoughtful scratch as she tried to mentally claw herself back into the conversation. "You said… it can't be cured. But can it be mitigated?"

"Yes, we can utilize methods similar to the one that my team employed to bring you out of your coma, in fact. Your neural implants have the ability to be programmed to emit radiofrequencies—pulse electrodes—into your brain. It won't eliminate the pain completely, but it has been proven to reduce the intensity at least."

The lingering feeling of emptiness growled in the pit of Roahn's heart. Wistfully, she stared at her stump for a few seconds longer. The implied pain, always primed to pounce, waited in the shadows for the perfect moment to strike. She could sense it, just out of reach. It snarled like a wild animal, frightened yet driven by its impulses. Its ferocity terrified her to the core, making her feel like she would never be free of its watchful gaze.

"You don't have to make a decision right away," Cameron finished as he noticed Roahn's blank look in her eyes. "But I would advise deciding sooner rather than later. This road to recovery is not going to be an easy one, no matter what the choice turns out to be."

The quarian had fallen serenely quiet, giving the doctor the indication that it would probably be better serving to the patient if he were to leave her to rest. He lifted his hands from his knees once in a gesture of their business being concluded and got up from the chair to head for the door.

Rethius raised his hand slightly in the doctor's direction as the human passed him by. "You go on ahead. I have to stay for a few minutes. There are some things that I need to discuss with the Lieutenant Commander."

Cameron's eyes flickered back over to Roahn before he gave a solemn nod. "Don't take too long, major. She needs to recover."

"It'll be quick."

Now Rethius froze in his seat, statuesque, waiting until he heard the door slide shut after Cameron had left them alone. He still did not speak for a pregnant moment, his nostrils briefly flaring with each deep breath. Squinting his eyes, quick glances flashing off to the absent side, gave Roahn the clue that Rethius was tensing up for something.

"We'll be sending a debriefing team over to get your statement on the Luna operation in the coming days," he started as he itched a mandible absentmindedly. "We've accumulated our survivors and have taken their testimonies already. They paint an ugly picture of the scene."

"As they should," Roahn replied, a hard edge finding its way into her voice. "We were torn apart down there, major."

"So seems to be the consensus."

"And?" Roahn flexed the fingers on her right hand rigidly, now appraising her jerky movements with an increasing degree of frustration. "Did we manage to take the objective?"

Rethius' eyes narrowed as his own fingers rapped upon his knees. "Eventually. After accumulating more casualties, they did. As of yesterday, control of Portskerra Base has officially been reverted back to the Alliance."

"Well… _congratulations?_"

"We're not celebrating for this," Rethius spoke crisply. "Luna was what the humans call a '_pyrrhic victory._' Command is none too happy that a significant portion of their fighting forces had been felled so quickly in those skirmishes near the base. I never told you this before, but our unit was already under heavy scrutiny after New York—they thought that our overall performance was not in keeping with their high expectations of what constitutes a supreme fighting force. Luna has cost us in more ways than you could think, Roahn. There are rumors that Command might open an official inquiry. They're going to want to know everything that happened in that base."

"_They_ want to know what happened," Roahn repeated, punctuating each word with a hearty dose of venom. "You're telling me Command doesn't already know?"

"I'm not speaking for—"

"If they told you that they want to know everything happened, despite them having the testimonies of the unit already on the record, then that means they're looking for someone to blame. You. Me. They want a scapegoat so that they can feign ignorance because what happened was that it was their own fucking stupidity that got everyone killed in the first place on that stupid moon!"

"Roahn, I suggest you calm yourself," Rethius warned.

"Calm myself?" Roahn laughed in disbelief. "You did not just say that. How can I be calm? _Look at me!_" She waggled the stump of her arm for emphasis so fiercely that Rethius had to look away in embarrassment. "We got sent out onto Luna with garbage intel that Command approved, with no backup, and Command knew that the Alliance was refusing to lend us any sort of cooperation to boot! Command should not have taken this assignment. They had all the clues necessary to tell the Alliance to shove it when they came to us for our 'help.' They want a scapegoat, they should fight for the dubious honor amongst themselves!"

Rethius sighed in frustration as he kneaded his forehead with a knuckle. "It's not that simple, Roahn. It never is. The military—_all_ militaries—are designed from the ground up to deal with these choices on a _need to know basis_. If there were any other outside motivators that persuaded Command to assist on Luna, then we were obviously not going to be informed of such things!"

"Major," Roahn now leaned forward, the tears in her eyes indicating this was more painful than expected and thus alerting her that moving around was not a particularly wise thing to do, "I'm warning you, if this so-called 'debriefing team' comes in with an agenda other than simply fact-finding, I _will_ tell them all to go fuck themselves."

"I'll get you a guarantee on this, Roahn. On that, you have my word. I only want to help you right now—we especially want to catch the people that did this to you but we can't go about that without your cooperation."

The look in Roahn's eyes turned cold and she stared back at the window, perhaps to divine its warmth and take it into herself.

"The only cooperation of the sort that I want to go about is taking the fight out there. To the people that hurt me. Once I get out of this bed, major, I won't be stopped."

"We have our orders."

"It won't prevent me from looking."

Rethius cleared his throat as he reached down into a knapsack that he had brought along. From within he withdrew a flat gray tablet. A sliding drawer integrated into the sterile curtain sat in front of him. He opened it and placed the tablet inside, closing it right away. Now Roahn would be able to take the tablet from the other side of the curtain—the drawer bypassed the barrier and had been chemically treated to kill all foreign pathogens that may be introduced into its miniscule environment. Drawn at the noise, Roahn appraised the drawer for a moment before her expression turned into one of annoyance. The handle of the drawer was directly to her left. The side where she had no arm. Rethius now understood as Roahn painfully rolled over to reach for the handle, mortified that he had to subject the quarian to the indignity of flopping over just to open a drawer.

With considerable effort, Roahn had finally extricated the tablet from where Rethius had placed it, the darkness never quite leaving her eyes. A singular page booted up onto the holographic screen. There were only a few lines for her to read. She scanned the contents rapidly, eyes blazing through the page before she stopped mid-sentence. She shifted back up to read the entire thing again. Then she read it through one more time for good measure.

"What is this, major?" Roahn's trembling voice, deathly quiet, uttered. Rethius had to lean in just to hear her clearly.

"It came down from Command," was his only explanation, slowly blinking in the face of delivering such a weak reply.

"What. Is. This?" Roahn repeated, not satisfied with the answer. Slowly, she rotated her head, eyes wide and pleading, mouth half-open and fingers noticeably shaking.

Rethius had to look away, afraid at being unable to halt the inevitable future.

"You're being transferred from my unit," the turian finally sighed after a beat. "And… you're being moved out of Defender active service entirely."

Roahn shook the tablet in her hand, a hard grimace tearing at the corners of her mouth, spilling past the edges of the breathing mask. "There's to be no discussion, is that it?" she growled.

Guilty, the bob of Rethius' head came automatically. "This… uh… this _is_ the only discussion that's going to be delivered."

"'_Combat status revoked?' 'Unfit for active duty?'_" Roahn quoted from the document, her tone sinking further and further into disgust before she surged against the railing of her bed, shimmering eyes ablaze with platinum fire. "All because I was injured? I only lost a damn _arm!_"

"When I told you that everything was need-to-know, I was being serious."

"That somehow explains the stupidity of this decision?! One doesn't get discharged just for losing an arm. Not if they insist. Major, I'm still an asset to you!"

"Roahn…" Rethius groaned.

"I'm your XO! I want this chance. I want to make a difference—"

"No, Roahn," Rethius interrupted, having finally had enough. "This isn't about you trying to right whatever wrongs that chance upon your path. We can dispense with the lies between us. This reaction, right here, is not because you have a selfless desire to bring a semblance of peace unto those unable to live under such an umbrella that we provide. No, it's simpler than that, I've learned. It isn't about being an asset to me, or to the Defenders. This is about you trying to live up to your father… and you know it."

Perhaps not even the metal jaw that had cleaved her arm in two had been a more damaging blow than the words that had tumbled succinctly from Rethius' mouth. They echoed only once in the small room, the sterile the air seeming to absorb the noise without effort. Roahn's mouth fell open before she closed it, completely at a loss. Rethius, not quite finished, still fixated himself upon the quarian as he now rose to leave.

"It was a political decision that removed you from my command. Some senator… or councilor didn't think that having the daughter of Commander Shepard severely injured looked good for the Defenders' track record. The leverage they exerted was only to save you from further pain. But if were up to me, I would have waited until you healed, Roahn. You're a good soldier, but you're not invincible."

"And now what am I?" Roahn sighed, her posture slumped in defeat. "What will become of me? Am I to simply take a desk job? Work anonymously behind the scenes? I'm to just lie down and accept this order?"

"If you don't like it, you can always resign your commission," Rethius sighed gruffly, finally fed up with Roahn. "That _is_ an option open to you."

"_Fuck_ you," the quarian spat. "I'm being hamstrung and you're not even lifting a finger to defend me."

"I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction of responding to that little statement," Rethius' eyes narrowed sternly. "What's done is done. You know of my limits on these decisions."

Turning smartly on a heel, ignoring Roahn's angry expression, Rethius marched out of the room without a second thought. He had delivered the news that he had been minimally required to courier. His duty, small as it was, was done. In his wake, Roahn violently stared back at the void the turian had once occupied, the lone question reverberating in her chest as she frantically tried to come up with ways to alleviate her frantic worries.

But it was panic that fed her in the short term.

_What am I to do now?_

* * *

_Hours later_

Fire…

Pain throbbed up Roahn's arm. The fibers embedded within her very skin urged for respite. It felt like she had plunged into agony, her life having emptied to leave her flopping at the bottom of a deep and pitch black well.

In utter darkness, Roahn cried out as she suddenly surged up from the bed, having been jolted awake, from what had already been a terrible rest, by the searing pain. She had only a bleary second to read the time on the nearby chronometer—early in the morning—before another spasm took her and she groped at her arm to stem the flow of her hurting.

Only there was no arm to squeeze.

Roahn's remaining hand floundered at empty air. The burning sensation felt like it was extending beyond the bare stump of her arm, the bandages having been removed yesterday. She clutched at it, desperate for mercy, only to be dispassionately ignored once more.

Fire… fire…

Phantom pain. Damaged nerves firing off false signals within the brain. Tears spilled down Roahn's eyes as she envisioned her missing arm being doused in lava and fire. It hurt so much! It was as if her imaginary skin was curling black, crackling and crisping, revealing the gleaming white bones before the flames would char them black as well.

She writhed on the bed, teeth clenched so tightly that the enamel was nearing its breaking point. Her mouth opened in a soundless cry, fingers and toes completely rigid in their throes.

Fire… fire… fire… _off_.

Out like a light. The pain finally ceased at the turn of a switch.

Left to quietly sob, Roahn clutched her maimed limb as she curled up into a ball, fetal. The sheets of the bed had been soaked through from her sweat. Her skin radiated heat. Her sighs of relief gushed from her throat, micro-spasms still clawing at every muscle as she helplessly twitched in the wake of the passing discomfort.

This had been the worst bout yet. Three days in the hospital so far and she had only gone through a couple mild attacks, not at all serious. But they had been nothing like this one. They paled in comparison. The sheer paralysis that had consumed her this time, now that she knew what was truly in store… it made her afraid. Saddened, but fear resonated most of all.

Burying her face into her pillow, her stump still smoldering, Roahn muffled her screams of rage against the cushion, intent on letting it absorb the brunt of her tormented cries so that no one but her would be able to listen.

* * *

Thankfully her body had been kind enough to allow her to eventually get back to sleep, albeit a wide-eyed one at the initial onset. The precious few hours she had been able to recapture were not at all substantial and felt like she had only shut her eyes for five minutes once she had awoken again, this time to a more subdued start to her day.

Pale gold light glowed from the overhead fixtures, warping through her closed eyelids. Roahn gave a tiny groan, still wanting to return to the purgatory that sleep offered. But gradually consciousness imparted its way upon her, granting her energy and refusing to let her nod off. Her right hand automatically came back over to her stump to feel the knot of hastily grown skin that had fastened over the wound. Knobby and marble-white, the medi-gel had sped up her body's creation of scar tissue, covering the horrid injury in new skin without any danger to her overall health. It felt warm, smooth to touch. Slight tingles there from the barest pressure her fingers exerted, but it was far more muted when she touched that place than anywhere else on her body.

The weird thing was, if she still allowed her mind to flex beyond its station, she could maintain the barest sensation of her three missing fingers, waggling out there in the ether. She quickly quashed that desire. _Idiot_, she cursed herself. That was exactly the sort of thinking that had caused her such terrible pain to begin with. She had to be more careful!

Drawn to despair, Roahn sighed as she finally cracked her eyes open. The emptiness of the ceiling was there to greet her. Yawning, she blearily turned her head to the side, trying to get into a better position. Then, in a second of terrifying realization, she gave a quick start in her bed, because she soon realized that she was not alone in her room. Someone was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bubble… staring right at her.

_What the…?_

"Hey, kid. You're awake. Finally," a flanged voice cut through the still air.

The person claiming the chair right at the edge of her sterile curtain was another turian, like Rethius. They were tall and lanky, dressed in rigid fabrics that would be considered casual for their race. Blue facepaint adorned his angular features and his warm blue eyes were flecked with hints of orange. There was a genuine-ness to his expression, one of caring and compassion. The very same sort of emotions that welled within Roahn once she realized who she was facing.

"_Garrus!_" she exclaimed as she sat up from the bed, astonished, no longer tired. "I… I don't… what are you _doing_ here?"

Garrus Vakarian, legendary warrior formerly of the _Normandy_ crew and a dear friend of both her and her father, briefly dropped his gaze to the floor before he gave a mirthful but dry chuckle while he straightened his posture.

"Happy to finally be in a room with you again," the turian retorted before he mirthfully pointed back towards the door he had presumably entered through. "Oh… did you not want to see me at all?"

"I… I…"

"Or am I not allowed to drop into the hospital room of someone I care about very much after hearing of her injury?"

"Cut it out, Garrus," Roahn finally regained control over her tongue, albeit over a huge grin that was still muffled from the breathing mask. She always seemed to forget how annoying this turian could be on the right occasion. "You know very well that you just surprised me. I was sleeping."

"I _was_ hoping to catch you while you were awake," the turian shrugged. "That way I wouldn't have startled you so badly."

"Well, you failed. I hope you're happy."

"Devastated, actually."

"A shame," Roahn mockingly glowered before she finally laughed. Ah, laughter. _That_ felt good. "But I am glad to see you, even if you are the galaxy's biggest _bosh'tet_."

Garrus bounced upward once as he laughed. "Your mother always loved calling me that. _Bosh'tet _this and _bosh'tet_ that. Never did figure out what it meant, though I've always suspected it to have a rather rude connotation."

"It's actually pretty meaningless to you as an insult," Roahn explained. "But for quarians? It cuts pretty hard."

"Lucky for us both I have thick skin. Probably explains how I could take a rocket to the face and still keep on breathing."

The left side of Garrus' face was a tangled web of scar tissue, his carapace all gouged and chipped from mandible to the top of his head. The injury had been garnered a long time ago, way before Roahn was ever a thought. Roahn thought the scars gave the turian some character, not to mention she thought they looked pretty neat, though she was too shy to mention that to Garrus' face.

Despite herself, Roahn smiled sheepishly. "It would have been all right if you waited another day to stop by. I'm due to be out of this bed by tomorrow, anyway."

"I'd say that this was more of an advantage that I seized at an opportune time. My _biggest fan_ is out hopping the galaxy all the time and only now could I find her while she's lying still!" Garrus then glanced guiltily at Roahn's stump. "But… I do admit that the timing could have been more ideal."

Roahn ignored the last part, keen to put her disability behind her as she chose to only listen to the lighter meaning behind the turian's words. "You're only saying that I'm your biggest fan because I told you when I was very young that I used to have your action figure."

"And I was very flattered when you first told me that. You were adorable when you were nine."

"Call me adorable again and you'll have a new scar on your face," Roahn grinned as she lifted a fist mockingly.

Both laughed in the face of the facetious threat. Roahn's cheeks started to hurt as her grin spread ever wider. Like Rethius before, she had no reservations over the fact that she was still lying in this bed practically unmasked. Garrus had seen her in a more uncovered state before, anyway, so glancing upon her nearly-naked visage now was not something completely foreign to him. At this point, Roahn had shown so many people her face that the novelty had started to wear off for her, as did the trepidation. A rather disparate ratio compared to her mother, who had only willingly shown her face to only three individuals in her life before her passing. Still, a new galaxy presented new innovations. Adapt or die.

"If this curtain wasn't between us I'd give you a hug right now," Roahn said.

"As would I. Yet here we stand… er—_sit_. I… I came as soon as I could when I heard the news."

"_Hmph_. Was everyone I was ever associated with told of my admittance to the hospital?

"I have my contacts in the organization," Garrus explained with a minute wave of his hand. "I do like to check up on you every now and then."

"Afraid for my safety?" Roahn arced an eyebrow.

"More like providing myself peace of mind, knowing that you're out there and still alive."

"Yes… well…" Roahn unconsciously let her mind wander to the point where she sought to flex her missing hand, but all that resulted was an electric tingle near her stump. She barely hid the wince in time. _Stupid!_ She had to work on that. "From what I was told, I got pretty close to never waking up. I guess I should apologize for nearly wrecking your peace of mind."

"No need for that. I know how tough you are. You'll get through this without a problem."

"For the moment," Roahn allowed as she pushed air out of her mouth. Her skin felt dry, as if she had been baking the hot sun for hours. The cold precision of her very being began to stir, uncomfortable. "They removed me from all combat operations, Garrus. They fed me some stupid explanation of how… I guess it doesn't matter. The best thing that I could possibly hope to hold as a position now is a drone operator on board a carrier. A damn _desk job_. What is the use?"

The turian gave a sage nod, immediately understanding Roahn's plight. "I know that too. It's something that we've all dealt with at one point or another, Roahn. You, me, Tali, your father. We've all had the bureaucracy try to hold us back from our potential. Sometimes for things even beyond our control."

Roahn found herself absentmindedly nodding along with Garrus in agreement. She then caught herself as a thought suddenly became pertinent in the forefront of her mind.

"Garrus… I'm sorry, but is there another reason why you're here? I know you didn't come all this way to make small talk. Or try to comfort me."

Garrus folded his hands over his lap. "You think that I really have an ulterior motive for being here?"

"Nothing sinister, I hope?"

The turian politely chuckled before he let his expression grow serious and he leaned forward. Roahn found herself mimicking the action in anticipation. "I _do_ have something for you, Roahn," Garrus affirmed. "Something that I think you would appreciate very much."

"What is it?"

"An opportunity," Garrus whispered. "Perhaps the best opportunity that you could ever come across in this moment."

Now the stillness in the air was so thick it could have been cleaved with a dull knife. Seeing the edge of Garrus' stare, Roahn was aware of a grim fatefulness that resided within his eyes as if he was capable of seeing the future in all of its splendor and terror.

"I've been given command of a task force by the Council," Garrus said. "Complete freedom. Limitless budget. You name it. They selected me to head up this crew—with all the usual authorities that they normally bestow upon Spectres—and to lead strikes against targets of interest, namely the warring private military corporations currently running amok in the galaxy. Not as a reactionary force like—no offense—but like the Defenders. This is to be an offensive force. Plain and simple."

Roahn's mouth dropped slightly. "They chose you to go after the PMCs _directly?_" It seemed incredible to her that this had reached her ears. Not only had someone with two brain cells to rub together had seen to it to create this task force to tackle the direct problem, they had probably selected the best person she could have figured to lead it. As a former Palaven representative to the Council and as a skilled ex-soldier, there could have been no other candidate more perfect than Garrus Vakarian to head up this mandate.

"I couldn't refuse," Garrus shrugged. "I was given the chance to help right this galaxy back on course. I didn't turn away when I was offered the first time. I wasn't going to turn away this time either."

"Does this task force have a name?"

"Indeed it does," the turian straightened. "I'm thinking of calling it: Umbra Team."

"Umbra…" Roahn's breath gently echoed the name.

"Another word for '_shadow_,'" Garrus explained. "Thought it would suffice considering the rather clandestine nature of the work ahead."

"I mean… a crew of your own. Garrus, that's incredible. And so you're already incorporated and everything?"

"The paperwork's just gone through," Garrus said with pride. "This will be the first of what the Council is dubbing an Experimental Military Operator force. These XMOs are designed to act as specialist squads, with their own ship, equipment, and crew paid for by the Council. They've already seen fit to lend me a ship for our use—a _Normandy_-class, you'd like it. I've already gone ahead and recruited a pilot, a doctor, and a military consultant to join the team, but there are still plenty of slots that need to be filled."

Before Roahn could inquire further, Garrus continued. "I want _you_ to be my XO."

Twice this very same proposal had occurred within a week and Roahn was no less flabbergasted, despite the experience. She slowly blinked, already weighed down, and reclined until her back hit the angled mattress.

"You're being completely serious?" she asked.

Garrus shrugged as if such a question had been as natural as asking what seasoning she wanted for her food. "You said it yourself: they're sidelining you for reasons beyond your control. You've got an incredible record in the Defenders, Roahn, and they're going to end up squandering your talents from here on out. I've been given leave by the Council to select practically anyone I want for Umbra Team. You're at the top of my list for the position."

It seemed unbelievable. Garrus Vakarian was actually asking her to come under his wing! All those stupid dreams she had undergone as a child—fighting alongside members of the Normandy crew! And her father… _Keelah_, would her father be proud of this decision? Surely he must. He would understand what this offer meant to her and he would simply be happy because of that fact. Yet half a dozen names continually resounded within her mind, names of people she knew had more experience working with Garrus. Liara T'Soni, Grunt, Javik, Miranda Lawson, among others. All legends in their own right. So why her? Why was _she_ being singled out to stand at Garrus' side?

But more importantly, was this really the right thing to do?

"You'll be given operational command of ground missions, of course," Garrus continued. "You'll have access to equipment the Defenders would salivate over possessing, and you can give input towards any recommended additions to the team."

There was something singing within Roahn. A new feeling of hope, something that had been lamentably absent in her of late. An opportunity, indeed. Yet a clenching sensation of willful misgivings rooted her in place. It was almost too much to take in, now that she fully comprehended the ramifications.

Again her mind went back to her injury. Was it possible to regain the training with a new limb or a replacement? She figured, after some thought, that there was little cause for fear. Like the doctor had mentioned earlier, there were options at her disposal. No doubt she could come back to a hundred percent combat efficiency, or at least close to it. No, despite how it looked on paper, losing an arm was not going to be the inhibitor here.

How dearly Roahn wanted to shout out loud that she wanted to join Garrus' team. A chance of a lifetime. No longer was she to be part of a reactionary force! It could hardly be more perfect.

But she said nothing. Betrayed no reaction.

All because it was too good to be true.

She was thinking in so many directions at once that she was becoming disoriented. She had chosen to sign up with the Defenders for a reason—they were the only unit standing in the way of the PMCs and she wanted to do her part to stop them all. What Umbra Team now presented was a more specific route of accomplishing that task… but that meant she would have to abandon her duty to the team she had chosen to stick with initially. Would that reflect kindly upon her in the end? Would this truly be disloyalty now that she had already been practically betrayed? And the danger involved—there would be plenty more chances for her to become dismembered or worse in the future if Umbra Team was where her destiny lied. The violent nature presented before her… all she knew was that it could be devastating.

Then there was the one remaining reason. The lingering remnant that only one person in this galaxy would understand. Garrus, even though he was loved by her, was not that person.

"How long do I have to decide?" she asked, her lone hand forming a knot of the sheets that covered her lower torso.

Garrus blinked, absorbing the question. "For your answer, I can wait as long as necessary. You're still probably shook up, anyway. I don't need you to decide right now. I just handed you a bombshell, practically—take a few days, think it over."

"Thank you, Garrus."

The turian made a gesture of acceptance with his hands, sensing that it was nearly time for him to leave. "If you need me, I'll be in my old apartment on the second arm. You know which one. You can reach me anytime at my number, also."

"I remember," Roahn said, but bit her lip as she watched Garrus begin to depart. "Will you be disappointed if I don't make the choice you expected?"

Garrus turned, his expression neutral. "Disappointed? No, dear. I won't blame you for making a decision that you thought to be right."

"But I _do_ like the offer," Roahn added. "Everything's just been so… much. You know?"

"I know, Roahn. I know. I've done all the convincing that I can do. The last hurdle is reserved for you alone. Hang in there, kid."

The stifling silence returned once more as Garrus exited through the door, leaving Roahn to wallow in the miserable void.

* * *

_The seething breath of creation coursed through her lungs. Savage pinpricks of sensation dotted her very skin. Roahn fell into the dream wholeheartedly, abandoning past tensions to pursue flights of fancy._

_Within the dream, her eyes opened._

_Automatically, she stood from where she had been lying on the grassy ground. Floating awareness resounded. She dusted herself off, oddly disconnected from the abrupt segue into this strange land. She did not even react when she finally noticed that she was in command of both arms, each one flawless and unscarred from time._

_Invisible hesitation briefly stilled her movements. Limply, she traced the length of her left arm with her right hand, a delicate finger moving up against the lines of veins, faintly visible underneath the pale gray surface. The touch resounded and eventually a new discovery finally made its way to her inner mind._

_Her skin. She was exposed to the open air._

_The dream prevented her panic from bubbling up too quickly and wrestling her away into the realm of consciousness. There was some disbelief to be suspended here. She could feel her lungs soaking in the thick air greedily, finding no impediment to her actual breathing. Her windpipe was not swelling due to an allergic reaction, she was not drowning in secreted fluids, and deadly pathogens were not eating away at her insides—the usual ailments that accompanied such a terrible suit breach. Five seconds of stillness elicited a calm breath. No enviro-suit would be needed here, she decided. For now, she was safe._

_She took the next moment to address her appearance. Body-sculpted pants and a shirt combination, both colored an onyx-black. As casual of a wear as it could be imaginable for quarians, but this struck a chord with Roahn. She wore outfits like this all the time when she was relaxing back in her home on Rannoch—the one place in the galaxy where she could reliably take off her mask and breathe in the free air unimpeded._

_Dawn was touching her surroundings, outlining everything in a burnt orange. Sun-crisped rock walls were thrown up in the distance many miles away, but vegetation surrounded her in a blinding wave of green. The tiny blades of grass tickled the soles of her feet—she waggled her toes as she stood upon the ground. The thick leaves of fruit-bearing trees rustled serenely from an ocean breeze, the trunks old and ridged. Waxy bushes formed tall hedges, shielding her with a band of shadow. The dripping sound of water was nestled close by. Dew from the morning dribbled from a nearby vine next to her head._

_A makeshift path between two rows of bushes beckoned. Since this was a dream, Roahn saw no issue in succumbing herself to the path's charms. She plodded forward, her bare feet touching warm dry earth and made her way through the garden. She inhaled, taking in the deep and rich scent of the trees and the plants around her. Springy. Decaying. A unique terroir that affirmed the lush coastal paradise from that one sense alone. She could taste the citrus peel in her mouth already and the spicy tang of herbs for the smell was so thick._

_She reached out both arms and let the leaves brush her fingertips. All was normal in her world. She closed her eyes as she slowed her gait to a near crawl, taking her agonizing time to let the splendor of the living surround her in the entirety of its embrace._

_Then a snapping noise made itself apparent. Roahn froze in place. Another snap. A deliberate noise. An animal? She had to make certain._

_Now creeping forward, Roahn held her breath as she slowly ducked into a crouch-walk. The long and limp leaves of a tree obscured her view just ahead, but she could see that the area beyond was awash with light and color. And… there! Through the leaves. A flicker of motion. Hesitatingly she inched closer, using her left arm to gently push away the leaves and branches without a sound._

_She created an opening for herself so that she could walk through into the hidden grove. Upon letting the green curtain fall back behind her, Roahn felt everything clench up inside her as a frantic emotion now sought to well out from her, causing her to choke up in an instant._

_Tali sat upon a stone bench, completely clad in her enviro-suit, as she tended to a potted plant as tall as her hip, clippers in a hand as she gently nicked a stray leaf that had gotten out of line. She appeared not to notice her daughter as she grew closer, humming to herself as her deft fingers trimmed and cared for the plant which was now starting to grow heavy as its branches bore plump magenta fruit._

_Roahn continued to approach, too emotional to speak. She grew rigid as Tali finally turned towards her, her eyes becoming animated and joyful behind that purple visor. The woman was as exactly as Roahn had remembered her last, down to the tiniest detail. Unmasked, Roahn's own expression of nearly catatonic happiness was plainly apparent while Tali's own joy was subdued, yet it was clear to the daughter just how deep her own elation ran._

_Still, unbeknownst to Roahn, a tiny smile graced Tali's lips._

"_You can't stay here, my little Ro."_

_Roahn fell to her knees in front of her mother, the familiar voice singing proudly in her ears. The memories it rooted back up! She could remember the warmth of Tali's body when she hugged her as a child, the songs she sang to her as she tried to go to sleep. It was too much… too much…_

"_Mom…" she could only get out._

"_You haven't let go yet. I cannot make you whole. We are not meant to remain together, you and I. Perhaps eventually, but not now."_

"_No… no…" Roahn whispered as she crawled forward. She reached out and hugged the leg of her mother, desperately clasping her head against her body. She felt like she was seven years old again, tiny and feeble, powerless in the presence of this woman. "Don't say that. Don't say that. I want this. I want you back, mom."_

"_Shh, my Ro," Tali's hands now caressed the top of Roahn's head. "You are my daughter and I will always love you. But my time is past. There's still time for you to live, though."_

"_What are you saying?" Roahn raised a tear-streaked head. "Tell me. Mom, what do you mean?!"_

_But the elder quarian did not respond right away. She continued to stroke Roahn's head gently, reassuringly. Roahn desperately fought to give her eyes the strength to peer beyond that was deemed unperceivable, to even catch a glimpse of the loving face she had held in her mind for nearly twenty years. Just a glimpse._

_Then Roahn noticed that the thicket they were in had suddenly been doused by a sheet of darkness. She involuntarily glanced upward and saw a terrible sight. A dark, black shape had inexplicably appeared overhead in the sky, already starting to blot out the sun. Perfectly rectangular, the shape moved into position overhead, now sending the entire landscape in shadow. Fire radiated out from the edges of the rectangle—the sun desperately trying to reach the planet down below. Roahn immediately felt a chill embed into her body. The eclipse had effectively blocked the warming radiation that had sustained the world with life. The temperature dipped below freezing in seconds. Roahn shivered, her teeth chattering, and she clung tighter onto Tali for warmth._

_What was the shape? Roahn wondered. A ship? An asteroid? Some kind of cosmic phenomenon?_

"_Mom?" Roahn asked through a clicking jaw. "What's happening?"_

_Tali continued to remain silent. Instead, Roahn felt the woman draw her closer to her body, shielding her from view._

"_Mom?"_

_The light at the edges of the rectangle far overhead then began to pulsate, the sequences escalating faster and faster. The light thrashed against the barrier, cracking it apart. It hurled itself towards the blocking force, causing cracks to appear and to make their way towards the center. Glowing white-hot, the cracks met all at once and the shape exploded, a wave of heat and plasma destruction now surging forward in an annihilating force._

_A supernova._

_Roahn screamed as the heat was flung against her instantaneously. The cold evaporated in the blink of an eye. It became so hot that she could no longer breathe. Noxious gases filled her lungs, turning the world blurry and dark. The light from the exploding star became so bright that she could no longer see her mother anymore, despite the fact that she was holding her tightly in her arms._

"_Mom!"_

_Roahn's skin crisped and began to melt. Her hair caught ablaze from the very heat of the air. Waves of pressure shattered her bones and pulverized her organs in seconds. She could feel her very face slide off her skull as her eyeballs finally popped and dribbled only halfway before the moisture evaporated what liquid was left in her body._

_The darkness had fled from the light. The never-ending night had been vanquished by the eternal day. The planet burned and disintegrated underneath the powerful onslaught. Fire danced in the elegant arcs of gravity, turning bands of light into rings of destruction. Vegetation became ash. Rock became magma. The world took a final breath right before it collectively died, its atmosphere finally wisping away in a last, pathetic gasp._

_And up until then, even after the savage pulsations had charred away her skin, even after her muscle had been blasted completely off of her blackened bones, even as the first shockwave slammed against the world to crack it into a trillion pieces, Roahn still had the strength to scream._

"_Mom!"_

* * *

"_Mom_…" she gasped as her eyes flared open.

The panic-induced breaths sapped her energy as she lay in the bed, staring wide-eyed at the hospital ceiling once more. Roahn clutched a fist and held it to her chest, feeling the three-pronged attack beat of her heart surge wildly against her rib cage. She took a deep breath and held it, forcing herself not to sob as she let it all out, the action itself being so relieving that the very tips of her toes tingled.

Slowly, she floated back down to reality.

Roahn opened her eyes again, already dreading the sight of her stump. A quick glance showed her that, yes, all of this was indeed real. Her stump poked out from the short sleeve of the shirt. She suppressed a regretful sigh. At least in her dreams she was still complete. Whole.

The breathing mask was still fastened over her mouth and nose, still filtering in medications even as she slept. Roahn had been wearing it for so long that she was now about at her wit's end, fully entertaining the idea of tearing it off in a blind rage. She managed to quash the urge, remembering that now she only had one more day of bedrest before she could be allowed to walk out of here on her own volition. If she removed the mask now and had a bad reaction from exposure, then the inconvenient timing alone would be enough to deter her from ever willingly stepping outside of her suit ever again.

The rest of her attire had not changed since she had been admitted, nor had the setting. She had spent nearly a week in this place doing nothing but rest, it seemed like. Roahn was getting antsy, desperate to get out of the bed and to start walking but she was tied up to three different machines right now, all taking various measurements of her body functions. Suffice to say, she was not going anywhere in her current state.

Plus, she was not sure if she was going to be able to put on her enviro-suit one-handed. _Damn it_, she thought. She was going to have to make a lot of adjustments to her life. Adjustments that she had not even considered yet, despite the ample amount of free time she had been afforded. Roahn still had not given the doctors a firm date of when she wanted to proceed with treating her injury. She knew the ultimate resolution, yet she remained mum. Holding out for something, perhaps? She was not quite sure herself.

Frustrated at her forced lethargy, Roahn slumped against her inclined bed. Why must her dreams torment her so…

"I didn't want to disturb you while you slept," a raspy voice startled Roahn out of her reverie. She did not even know she had company. What _was_ it with people appearing in her room while she was sleeping?! "You were never a particularly good sleeper. Got that from your mother, I suppose."

But… that voice.

Roahn sat upright upon her bed as she turned towards the source. A dark shape stood distorted beyond the clear and sterile barrier, positioned in front of the frosted glass window. Slowly the figure began to walk toward her bed, their appearance becoming clearer and clearer as the warped myopia became less pronounced.

They had a warm smile on their face. A healthy color of their human skin. A head full of trimmed and thick gray hair about an inch long. A crisp goatee, also gray, slightly bushed around their mouth. They walked with a slight hitch in their step—tokens garnered from conflicts long in the past. An eyepatch covered his right eye, the most visible remnant that the man in front of her was indeed fallible. No longer the invincible war hero, just a man finally having age catch up to him.

A welcome and loving sight to Roahn.

"_Dad_…" she breathed, feeling faint and giddy at the sight of the man.

"Hi, honey," John Shepard said as he approached the curtain, his hands folded apologetically in front of him. "I'm… sorry I took so long to get here. I came as soon as I could once I heard—"

"Dad," Roahn interrupted, her breathing now echoing wetly against the mask plastered around her mouth. "Get in here. Please."

Shepard noticeably hesitated, flirting with the offer. "Are you sure? The last thing I'd want to do is get you sick, Roahn."

It took all of Roahn's willpower not to roll her eyes. "Dad, I've lived in your house for more than twenty years. For five of those years, I practically walked around without a mask on in your presence. I can't _get_ sick from being around you. Besides, I can't take this thing off my face even if I tried. Now, get in here and talk to me face-to-face or I'm going to lose my mind."

The human absorbed Roahn's demand thoughtfully before he gave a shrug of surrender, lightly chuckling. "No point in trying to figure out where your stubbornness came from, either."

The sealed chamber had a secondary airlock to act as a definite failsafe for germ intrusion. Shepard unzipped the first outer layer and stepped inside the malleable tube. Frantic gusts of wind then blew around him as the sensors detected his presence. He ruffled his hair smoothly once the decontamination procedure ceased. He then unzipped the final layer and closed it behind him, nothing in the way between him and his daughter now.

Shepard halted a hitch as he looked at Roahn, but finally relented as he beheld her silently pleading eyes levelled in his direction. He closed the distance to her bed as he gently embraced the quarian, holding her tightly in his arms, not so obtuse to not notice the welcome sigh that Roahn emitted from the action.

"My dear Roahn," Shepard sighed as he took note of his daughter's missing arm. "I'm so sorry. Are you in pain? I can get the doctors if you—"

"Not right now," Roahn said forcefully, using her remaining limb to squeeze as hard as she could into her father. "I mean… I'm not in any pain right now."

"But it _does_ hurt?" Concern on Shepard's face.

"Sometimes. They gave me meds for the worst of it."

"Phantom pain, I take it. Ah, Roahn… look at all the trouble you've gotten yourself into. Of all the things that could have happened… you didn't deserve this."

Roahn was quiet as the hug between her and her father slowly fell apart. Shepard took ownership of a stool that had been resting next to the bed, easing himself onto it at an arthritic pace. Her eyes briefly dipped downward towards the sheets, where her remaining palm was gently tipped upward, beseeching the ceiling.

"You okay, honey?" Shepard asked.

The glint in her eyes steeled. Refocused and hardened like diamonds as they shifted parallel to the ground, staring off into the forbidden distance.

"No," she said. "I'm not, dad. I've nothing but my failed expectations to comfort me."

"Why are you talking like this? You're alive, Roahn. Despite all that has happened, you're still alive. This is a second chance for you, not many of those are given to us. Believe me, I know. If I were able, I would hunt down the animals that did this to my daughter and strangle them with my own bare hands."

Roahn wished that such a thing was possible. Unfortunately, Shepard was no longer the fabled Commander of old anymore. Past injuries in addition to suffering from mild radiation poisoning had effectively rendered him useless in combat today. The man's lifespan had been shortened by about fifty years from his experiences. He still had his strength, but he was no soldier anymore.

"I was _deliberately_ kept alive," Roahn turned her head so forcefully it made Shepard slightly flinch. "The people who cut off my arm? They did not do that to kill me. They did it to maim, dad. The wound was partially cauterized when I was injured—there was no reason for them to do that. They wanted me alive… but for why, I do not know. Maybe… maybe it was to let the galaxy see me as a fraud. To have everyone know that Commander Shepard's own daughter was this close to becoming an invalid."

"Enough!" Shepard uttered, his voice still able to retain its powerful resonance. The tone shook Roahn deeply and she stilled herself as her father clasped a hand to her shoulder. "I won't have you fall into despair so easily. I was foolish enough to make that mistake several times over in my life. You're too young to have this burden on you now."

"It doesn't change the facts. Look at me, dad. My arm is gone!"

"Oh, believe me, I've noticed," Shepard now said with a fair dose of sarcasm, yet his message carried a lightness to it as he gestured to his missing eye for emphasis. "I have started to notice things a whole lot clearer now that I've only got one remaining way to see, you know."

Roahn took a look at the eyepatch and gave an enormous wince of regret. She had spent so long with her father when he started to wear the patch that she had absorbed it as part of his eternal self-image within the residence of her mind. Shepard had sustained the injury in a fight when she had been a little girl at the time. The severity of the injury coupled with his haywire cybernetics meant that he could not receive a cloned eye as a replacement. He opted to wear the eyepatch instead and it had become a permanent part of his wardrobe ever since.

"I would rather be in your position than have you go through what your mother and I have experienced," Shepard continued. "I've practically died twice during my life—once from the Collectors and the second time when I was buried in rubble on the Citadel after the war. Your mother, she experienced her fair share of suit breaches while on missions together—one was so bad that we had to restart her heart many times before she could develop permanent brain damage. I'd think that she would rather lose an arm than have to go through _that_ painful process again."

"Okay, okay!" Roahn screwed up her eyes as she waved a hand. "I get it. I get it, dad! You can stop with the comparisons."

"I'm just trying to be realistic with you. And you _know_ that I've tried for many years to do just that."

Shepard then stood from the stool and clasped his hands behind his back as he paced in front of the bed, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. He rapidly became lost in a vivid dreamscape of his thoughts, quickly called away to such a nameless void before clarity and reality clashed together, bringing him back to the present.

"I talked to the doctors before entering. They said that you haven't opted to have a new arm cloned for you. That you're leaning towards a prosthesis. Why? What's wrong with accepting a limb transplant? You'd be back to normal, good as new!"

Trapped in the bed, Roahn had no choice but to provide her father with a straight answer, despite her inclination to rip off the tubes that connected her to these machines and flee outright.

"I have thought about it… but the notion doesn't sit well with me, dad. Getting a new arm is like… trying to gloss over what happened to me," Roahn explained. "Making it so that nothing ever changed. I _don't_ want to forget this. A new arm just brings me back to the beginning—one more thing for me to lose. If it has the potential to happen again, then I don't want to risk it. Not until the job is done."

"Job? What job? Surely not going after the people that did this?"

"What else could it be?" Roahn lightly snarled.

"Won't that be a difficult prospect, what with the Defenders having stripped you of your combat ready status and all?"

Roahn slumped, momentarily drained as she rested her back against her pillow. "You really _do_ know everything, don't you?"

"I'm your father," Shepard now allowed a smile as he sat at the edge of Roahn's bed. "I'm _supposed_ to know everything about you." He then noted his daughter's distress and raised his hand to gently grasp hers. Her gray hand was warm and smooth against his calloused palm. Life in a suit against life outside. "You want to talk about it?"

Blankly staring at the floor, Roahn blithely shrugged. "The Defenders sent a liaison to give me a sitrep of the operation the other day."

"I wasn't asking as some know-nothing liaison. I'm asking as probably the one person who could possibly understand your plight."

A forced shift in mutual awareness shook Roahn from her temporary paralysis. A presence stirred within her, awaiting in the shadowy wings. It took its time, not at all harried, and slunk ever deeper into the festering pool that fed all her evils. The pool radiated terror. It gripped her.

"Four," Roahn whispered. "There were four. The people who did this, I mean."

"What were they? Human? Asari? Turian?"

"I… I'm not sure. Two of them looked like they were organic… but they were heavily armored. I couldn't tell. The other two were cyborgs, definitely."

Shepard sucked in a long breath. "Like the Legionnaire?"

"Yes… but they were different. They looked… _alien_."

Her father paused a beat, letting the silence settle around the two of them. He had a long look on his face and he lightly touched one of the straps of his eyepatch, perhaps unconsciously.

The Legionnaire had been a cybernetic organism under the employ of a PMC—Chimera—that had been sent out to apprehend Shepard many years ago. The Legionnaire had been a tall and brutish looking being that possessed immense strength and was an unrelenting pursuer. The cyborg had been responsible for massacring several of Shepard's old comrades, contacts, and even friends before Shepard and his crew had teamed up to finally put down the metallic being after an elongated fight in the city of Berlin on Earth. It was the Legionnaire that had put out Shepard's eye in that last fight. The cyborg had been a dogged opponent, clever and skilled. Face-to-face, the Legionnaire had been Shepard's toughest combatant and he would never forget the sheer agony and tiredness he had felt as he had frantically sought to end the creature's life once and for all.

The very thought that there might be two more cyborgs running amok out there was enough to turn the commander's face grave.

"Did they mention their names?" he finally asked.

Roahn nodded. "A man with a jetpack and some high-tech firearms: the Aeronaut. One of the cyborgs, Raucous—he's the one who cut off my arm—looks like a… a mutated varren. He walks upright, but sometimes he prowls like a quadruped. Then there was a thin one… the Cardinal… looked like a spindly and leafless white tree. Then there was the leader: tall, black cloak, silver domed helmet. Completely translucent—no visible features. They called him _Aleph_."

Shepard pressed his fingertips together as he pondered intensely before he took Roahn's hand again. "I'm not familiar with any of them. They don't sound like regular PMC fodder."

"I don't think they were. The PMC that I fought seemed to be under their command."

"Think they might be one of the clients for the PMCs and you just so happened to catch them in the act?"

"Maybe? I… I honestly have no idea, dad."

Any semblance of calm was rapidly eroding away. Basic emotional reactions were starting to take hold. The heat of safety crumbled away as icy ash. Something was unrolling in her mind. A vivid recollection of the experiences as if they were taking place in front of her eyes. The brief but savage burst of blood from her arm. The violent pain from the bite and the sizzling noise from her ruined flesh.

The pained scream that erupted from her tortured throat.

She shivered in place, her hand clutching her father's ever tighter.

"It's perfectly normal to be afraid," he assured her, sensing her despair.

"I don't want to be afraid," Roahn breathed after taking back control. "I want them all to _pay_."

"Careful, Roahn. You let your emotions influence you too much and it will eventually come back to hurt you."

Now she snapped her head up to look at him directly. "Don't you want to see these people suffer? How else could you possibly feel after they took your own daughter's arm? How else would you expect _me_ to feel?"

"I would expect you to feel anger, yes," Shepard agreed. "But that can only get you so far."

"I'm already limited in that department," Roahn growled. "I'm not even allowed to pick up a _weapon_ for the Defenders anymore, thanks to them. In one fell swoop I've been denied both a limb _and_ a career. You _should_ expect me to feel angry! Apparently I haven't paid enough for trying to accomplish the Defenders' objective after being thrown into a meat grinder over on Luna. Command just had to take my combat status for this. Have they forgotten that it was their own incompetence that cost them the lives of hundreds of their own men? Not only on Luna but on Earth as well? And Palaven? And Horizon? They lose a soldier and they shrug—it's only a statistic to Command. I lose an arm and they lose their heads! _'Oh, so the daughter of Commander Shepard got herself hurt on the front lines? Pull her back now, she needs to be with her family!'_ Those fuckers. They never even asked for my opinion before slapping this crap on me. I'm apparently of use to them as a symbol and not a soldier. A sign that the Shepard name lives on in war. And if their precious symbol gets a scratch they somehow think that they too have received the blow. _'Might as well cut all our arms off, now that we think about it!'_ Does this make sense to you at all, dad? Does this make sense that I'm beyond angry? That I'm _fucking furious?_"

Shepard had sat through the entire diatribe with the same expression from beginning to end. When it was clear that Roahn had finished, he used the next moment to compose his thoughts before addressing the quarian.

"I _know_ that it's unfair. If I had gone through my whole career without being given an unfair shake I probably would have been the first grunt in history to have done so. I can't profess to speak for you or for the people who made the decision to keep you out of harm's way. I can't do that." To Roahn's surprise, the man now released her hand and crossed his arms over his chest. "It just makes me all the more surprised to hear this from you knowing that you haven't accepted Garrus' offer to join his team yet."

_What?_ How the hell did her father already know about—

_Oh_. Garrus. Of course. Who else could it have been? It was obvious that Garrus probably had spilled everything about their conversation to her father. The two had been inseparable friends and still were to this day. No secrets between shipmates, especially shipmates that had shared a foxhole or two throughout the various campaigns they participated in.

"I didn't know I was expected to give an immediate answer," she lamely replied.

"Oh, _come on_," Shepard waved a hand, hiding a wince as he stumbled back to his feet, adverse radiation sickness continuing to affect him. "I know you, Roahn! Since you were nine all you could think about was wanting to make a difference in the galaxy! Sure, your interests ran to engineering back then, but now? You decided on your own that the Defenders were your best shot at accomplishing something meaningful. And, I will remind you, I never protested when you announced your decision to enlist. I never tried to dissuade you, fully knowing the trials that you were going to face."

"And I appreciate that," Roahn said, already starting to feel her cheeks grow hot from the close scrutiny.

"But that was _all you_. You did what you thought was right. And it turns out the Defenders think they can't use you anymore. But other people do! Garrus certainly does. Hell, I would have thought that you'd jump for joy when he extended the offer you. Instead I hear from him that only sullenness and silence met him back from you."

"But what _is_ his offer exactly?" Roahn asked, now reluctant to take her eyes off Shepard. "Joining this… this Umbra Team? What is this all about? Is it really a second chance or will I be uselessly spinning my wheels again? I've been sold this pitch before and I believed it then."

Shepard rasped a laugh in disbelief. "That's it? That's the only excuse you've got?"

"_Excuse_ me?"

"Roahn, you've been offered an opportunity that ticks every one of the boxes that you've listed to me. Garrus extended a hand for you to be the XO of his entire team, you get your combat ready status back, and not to mention, now you have a chance to find the people responsible for putting you in this position. That's why it doesn't make sense that you're _stalling_ on this."

"It's almost too good to be true," Roahn murmured.

"So your first instinct is to look the gift horse in the mouth?"

Roahn stared at her father blankly. "Was that supposed to be a metaphor? Because I don't have the first damn clue as to what you're talking about."

Shepard gave a light grimace. He was prone to forget on occasion that Roahn had not been exposed to all of the quirky human sayings and idioms prevalent amongst his kind. It gave him a very quaint character, in Roahn's opinion, but it also made him indecipherable at times.

"What I'm saying is," Shepard tried again, "you think that your career has been derailed. Then barely a moment has passed before something else with even better responsibilities comes across, dangling in front of your face. If I were in your position, do you know what I'd do?"

"Of _course_ I know what you would do," Roahn replied hotly. Then she fell silent for a tic as her hand went slack upon her lap. "And that's exactly why I'm hesitating."

There was a muted throb in both of their eardrums as somewhere, back out in the hallway, the distant noises of the hospital were allowed a brief crescendo.

Shepard looked down at the floor and then back to Roahn as he walked forward to sit down at the side of her bed again, this time even closer to his daughter. He held out his hand, palm up, for Roahn to take, not wanting to intrude if the gesture was unwanted. But the quarian's limb soon gravitated towards his, uncontrollably, and he gently ran a thumb across the smooth back of her hand.

"Do you know why I never tried to dissuade you from joining the Defenders, even though I probably should have, considering my history?" Shepard asked. "Or for that matter, do you know why I deliberately never tried to influence your career path all this time?"

"No," Roahn admitted.

"It was because I never wanted you to get the impression that you had to prove something to me. That there was some imaginary threshold that you needed to surpass. I've learned what you've wanted from me—ever since I told you everything I knew about your mother, I knew that I would have to let you choose your own future, to leave you unburdened by such stress as you grew. I have to live with my mistakes every day. You don't need to carry any of my weight, Roahn."

Roahn gave a slight nod. "I know, dad. I still know what I want."

Shepard arced an eyebrow. "Do you? Because it's not all that clear from where I sit. All I want for you is happiness. A sense of purpose. A father should want to give his child the universe but if I can at least give you _direction_, then that's a start. I can only tell you what I would do in your given situation. I can't make you choose, Roahn. Sure, if you decide to stick with the Defenders, you will be much safer with them. You'll have a fulfilling role, I'm sure, and your work may still have a good impact. But if you want to accomplish that driving desire that has been with you nearly your whole life, then I happen to know the one turian more than willing to give you that chance. No matter what the outcome is, Roahn, don't decide while using me as a benchmark in your mind. Only one person counts for this, my dear. Just one person."

The mask that covered most of Roahn's face did not permit the brief reactions she had betrayed to be visible to anyone. Only her eyes could convey the extent of her understanding as she had sat still while her father talked, entirely motionless. She had fallen very still in that time, not at all succumbing to even the barest twitch.

Shepard gave Roahn a sympathetic look as he blinked the sterile light out of his eyes. His nose briefly wrinkling as the smell of antiseptic finally began to irritate, he released his grip on his daughter's hand, moving to head towards the exit flap.

Adjusting his smart-looking jacket, Shepard looked like he was about to linger to deliver one last word, but the vibe that he was getting from Roahn told him that he had said enough. Satisfied, he raised his hand to unzip the flap when he heard Roahn's voice flutter from behind.

"There was once a time where you would have done everything in your power to shield me from danger. I still remember how furious you were when you caught me holding a gun for the first time."

Shepard's mouth flattened into a line, but he allowed himself a weary breath. "If I could take that moment back—"

"No, I don't want you to apologize," Roahn quickly corrected, her father once again turning back to face her now that they had resumed talking. "That memory is… important to me. I just found it funny at how _you've_ changed, is all."

The smile returned to Shepard's face. "There are some things that I realized that I had no chance in keeping you from."

"There is still so much for the both of us to learn from the other, huh?"

"Yeah," Shepard wryly chuckled. "And we will likely never stop learning."

For the first time, Shepard could see the edges of a grin finally grace the corners of Roahn's cheeks, breaking past the edges of the breathing mask. Staring back at him, a new well of relief was simultaneously shared.

"Garrus told me that he already had a pilot, a doctor, and a consultant already picked out," she said. "Do you know if he was considering anyone else for the XO position?"

Shepard shook his head firmly. "You know what he told me? That you were his only option. He was not going to ask anyone before you."

The smile lingered on Roahn's face. "All right. I'll tell him that I will accept the job. I'll be sure to let you know what his reaction is when I talk to him."

"Oh, I can already imagine," Shepard said comfortingly as he walked back over to provide a final hug of reassurance to the bedridden quarian (who let out a slight but mischievous grumble as her head was pressed against the man's chest). "But I'll see his reaction at the same time you will when we're meeting back up with him again tomorrow. We'll get your new arm fitted and Garrus'll introduce us to the rest of the team then."

"Wait…" Roahn blinked as her father was finally following through with exiting the sealed chamber, already in the process of unzipping the first flap. "_'We?_' You're not heading back home tomorrow? Dad, I appreciate the gesture, but you don't need to accompany me everywhere just because I got injured." She then laughed. "It'll be embarrassing."

Shepard grinned, though a stab of pain flashed for a second across his face as he turned his neck too quickly. "Despite you thinking that it's the duty of the parent to embarrass their kid at every opportunity, I have other reasons to join you tomorrow for the introductions—business-related reasons, to be specific."

"Business… _what?_" Roahn repeated dumbfounded before her entire expression blanked in a mixture of shock and total discombobulation. "Wait… are you saying…?"

"Afraid so," Shepard shrugged as he stepped out into the airlock, about to zip it closed. "Garrus hired me to be the military consultant for Umbra Team."

* * *

**A/N: The wheels are starting to spin as now we get to see a few familiar faces! The Defenders might not be the ultimate team but Umbra is a whole other animal. Trust me, you're going to like this next part.**

**Playlist:**

**Roahn's Operation**  
**"Inferno"**  
**Hans Zimmer, Bryce Jacobs, and Mel Wesson**  
**Rush (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Roahn is Discharged**  
**"...Should You Choose To Accept"**  
**Lorne Balfe**  
**Mission Impossible: Fallout (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**The Father's Talk (Shepard Family Theme)**  
**"Mi Amor"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**Spider-Man: Enter the Spider-Verse (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	5. Chapter 5: Next Gen

"_The Mako is perfect. You're the one who can't drive."_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

_Alliance Military Command Headquarters  
Conference Room: Chongqing_  
Citadel Tower

A light tinkling sound of silverware against crystalline glass rang throughout the conference room thrice, carrying above the polite chatter of the crowd that filled the area. About a hundred people who had been milling about in the background turned towards the center upon hearing the universal call for attention, where an Alliance aide—wearing the rank of Lieutenant—set down their glass and clasped their hands together, a broad smile on their face.

"Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen," he called, his smile continuing to be effusive. His back was toward the wide windowed wall, a splendid gallery about a couple dozen meters in length which was displaying the magnificence of the glowing Citadel cityscape as it was backlit by the swell of Earth behind it. "On behalf of Alliance Command, we would like to thank you all for being here today in celebrating this momentous occasion. Special appreciation, of course, goes to our benefactor, Admiral Marc Huston, for organizing this event for all of us."

Sustained applause rapidly burst from the air as a tall, clean-shaven human near the front, dressed in a smartly pressed uniform and adorned with a spectrum of combat ribbons, raised his glass of champagne to acknowledge the crowd. Approaching eighty-years of age, Huston was built like an ox and had the face of one too, chiseled with wrinkles but with none of the fat or atrophy. He commanded an imposing presence and struck many as the type of man who found the mere act of smiling to be a waste.

The aide ceased in his own enthusiastic clapping as he now sought to single out someone else from the mob. "And we would be remiss not to mention the person this day was for in the first place. Madam Phoria'Ghula nar Shellen vas Rannoch!"

The applause rose once again as now it was a quarian's turn to act humble in this moment. Phoria'Ghula, a matronly quarian, cut a rather diminutive figure amongst her human peers. Yet her blood-red visor and her long and flowing _sehni_ gave the image of a woman completely and firmly secure in her element. The quarian's every move was elegant and subdued, never going a millimeter out of line as she extended slight nods of gratitude to the random faces among her. The twin tails of her scarf-like _sehni_ bobbed in her wake, colored a storm-cloud gray with venous ribbons of crimson scurrying through the tapestry-like waves.

"As you know," the aide continued, "Madam Phoria's conglomerate, CytoSystems, is the first to participate in the new infrastructure outreach program that the Systems Alliance has been spearheading for the past year, or the Inter-Alliance Partner Program, as you might have heard. IAPP, is the official acronym. With the blessing of the Council," the aide waved to a bevy of alien commanders standing off to the side, who gave brief nods of acknowledgement, "we're pleased to announce that the Alliance's deal with CytoSystems has been ratified in full. With this partnership, we hope to have a long and prosperous relationship with you and CytoSystems, Madam Phoria. From humanity to you, we say: _Per aspera ad astra!_"

The room exploded into wild applause as the aide stepped aside to let Phoria take the stage. Watching the quarian move to ascend the tiny riser, the stars and skycar lines glimmering with surging lanes of light behind her, only one person was standing ramrod straight in the middle of the throng, not clapping, and certainly not feeling as excited as his peers.

James Vega, N7 operative and Alliance captain, sourly clutched the stem of the champagne glass in his fist, the drink itself still not having been touched. Clean shaven, sun-bronzed skin, and hair partially folded in a fauxhawk, the marine cut a strong figure through the tweedy makeup of the crowd around him. The collar of his uniform itched at his neck—he had always been a fit and muscular man but this meant that his suits were always at too tight of a fit.

His scowl grew deeper.

James had always hated these things. Both the dress blues and the frenzied circus of politicking never failed to fill his mind with dread. He hated these outreach gatherings especially. If Phoria up on the riser was completely comfortable, then James was perhaps at the polar opposite in terms of their respective mindsets. He would have given anything to perform the old "Irish Exit" and depart this room with nary a word extended to anyone. However, he knew that his boss, Admiral Huston, would notice his absence and reprimand him for it if he were to disregard protocol so blatantly. He was a prisoner in this place, surrounded by gloating sycophants blind to the obvious problem ahead.

Scowling, James took another gaze around the room, finding that the décor was a bit too jaunty for his tastes. He was a marine, used to the bare essentials to sustain him. This conference room was just extravagance. A crass example of how his superiors fell prey towards their urge to combat nonexistent detritus in appearances.

The floor was thinly carpeted, colored a navy blue. Sufficient at providing adequate soundproofing. The broad windows were all digital glass, swirling with faux smoke or glittering with pointed spears of multicolored light. Crystal chandeliers, donated by Earth's royal families, sparkled from the ceiling. Holograms of aquariums upon the walls displayed colorful reefs and schools of disparate fish swam in vibrant kingdoms.

_Over the top_, Vega thought.

The quarian, Phoria, was now about to speak. Vega had to admit that Phoria had an elegant air—a way of charming the room. The way she clasped her hands together and that her entire body leaned forward when she nodded to individual people in gratitude. False happiness on her part? Vega wondered. He honestly had no clue. Reading people was not his specialty. Shooting things was, which was why he was currently fantasizing about being in good old-fashioned combat armor instead of these damnable dress blues. These things were a tactical nightmare, too garishly colored, not at all fortified and—

Vega forced himself to quit simmering in his anger while Phoria finally addressed the crowd after the applause had died down.

"My thanks go to all of the Alliance for their help and cooperation throughout the entire negotiating process," Phoria said as she extended a limber hand to no one in particular. Her voice was deep, slightly gular, and carried with it the familiar trill of an accent. "To Admiral Huston, I am deeply appreciative of the support you have shown to me and for offering this opportunity to my entire team. I am certain that our new partnership will enable the Alliance—and by extension, the Council—peace of mind in knowing that their galactic interests will continue to be made essential and, most importantly, advantageously positioned for innovation. All of us are riding the razor's edge of prosperity, ladies and gentlemen. Our galaxy has survived so much. We have survived along with it. But in order to attain that prosperity, we need to focus on protecting the people that matter to us. I personally am grateful that the Council has had the foresight to tackle these dangerous issues head-on. CytoSystems and I may be the first to walk this path, but as time will tell, let us all hope that we won't be the last. There are still so many stories that we have to tell to each other. I hope to help us all to listen. Thank you, and _keelah ni'veh_."

"_Keelah ni'veh_," the crowd murmured reverently. James found himself repeating the same phrase, but it was not out of respect for Phoria, but a more rooted and hardier purpose.

_By the homeworld I look upon today_, it meant. Somber words, considering the history of the quarians. Three hundred blood-soaked years to finally return to their own world, Rannoch. James knew better than most of the people here just how important it was for someone like Phoria to have that phrase automatically on speed-dial in their vocabulary. Ironically, he was perhaps the only other person in this room to take the phrase seriously.

Perhaps that was because he had been on the ground, personally participating in taking Rannoch back for the quarians during the war. Alongside Shepard. Alongside Tali. James shook his head blithely. He had met very few quarians before in his life and he knew that it was going to be a very tall order to meet another one that lived up to the lofty expectations set by Tali'Shepard. That woman was as fine of a soldier as he had ever knew. He had been happy for her that she had found a partner in Commander Shepard and had been even happier when she ended up marrying him. He had mourned alongside his friends when she passed and had held out hope over the years that Shepard and his young daughter could find a way to move on from her death. To James' relief, it had turned out that father and daughter had certainly been able to overcome the loss of Tali several years back, while never forgetting the importance of that woman. One less thing on his mind for him to worry about.

Phoria had stepped down from the riser by this point and was now in the process of mingling with the guests. Military officers, politicians, and businessmen all crowded the quarian. For good reason, too. Phoria had come into ownership of a very large conglomerate many years back, which made her the most powerful quarian in the galaxy in terms of wealth and business status. Everyone wanted to get their words into the ear of Phoria'Ghula and to shove themselves in on the deal she had managed to secure for her company with the Alliance.

They saw it all as a way to acquire the one thing they wanted most: profit.

All of this transparent politicking. This bootlicking. People of all races just fawning and groveling at Phoria's feet like parasites. It disgusted Vega. He never had any head for politics. The few politicians that he had the displeasure to talk directly to in person was akin to pulling teeth. He wondered how Shepard had managed to keep himself sane during his frequent dealings with these flunkies during his Spectre years. He did remember that Shepard had nearly ended up in fisticuffs with a few, come to think of it.

Again, James wished he could flee outright.

Past a collected group of idly chatting lieutenants, James spotted Admiral Huston by himself, near the speaking podium. James screwed up his courage and walked over to the admiral, taking the time to place his still-full glass upon a tray that a passing asari waitress was carrying.

Huston saw James coming but his expression changed not a whit. "Captain," he said by way of greeting, his voice like rich mahogany. "You haven't partaken any of the refreshments."

James ignored the opening. He was not in any mood to discuss the food right now. "Can I have a word, sir? In private?"

Huston arced an eyebrow, his shoulders now squared towards James. It was almost as if James' request was a huge inconvenience to the admiral upon first glance, but James knew that Huston's muted reactions were hard to decipher for people who had not been around him long. The admiral silently began to walk to a quiet corner, which was as much of an indication for James to follow.

"I can tell that you're having misgivings, captain," Huston said. He then cracked the smallest of smiles, ice-cold and unnerving instead of nurturing. "Understandable, given what you know. Still, impressive speech, no? The madam has a more lyrical tone than I could ever hope to muster."

"Sir, what is going on here?"

Huston still betrayed no reaction. "I believe I have a complete understanding as to what you are referring to, captain, but for the sake of us both, I would prefer if you speak plainly rather than in vagaries."

James had to fight not to lose his patience too badly. Huston, traditional to his core, was the sort of man you did not want to anger in an irrational fit. The admiral's key strategy, when engaged in dialogue, was to remain rigid to an almost obtuse degree, forcing his 'opponent' to gradually become more and more frustrated. Huston would then proceed to tear the other speaker apart as he forced them to become unnerved and prone to mistakes. It was something that James had seen firsthand and was not keen on being the next victim.

"This whole thing, a new cooperative with a newly vetted corporation, was particularly poised to be a strict deal between the Alliance, sir. There are military delegates from the other races here. _Here_. An _Alliance_ partnership meeting and yet _they_ were invited. Why?"

"It was prudent to extend invites to our counterparts, of course," Huston said in the verbal equivalent of a shrug. He shifted his eyes for Vega to look, whereupon the two of them could see a turian and a salarian off in the corner, chatting to Phoria with what appeared to be an intense focus. "Admirals Erext and Corinthus have been incredibly instrumental to this whole development, actually. Between you and me, it was them who had recommended Madam Phoria for this program in the first place."

"Our 'outreach' program," James clarified.

"I believe that _is_ why we are here now," Huston said simply before taking a measured sip of his champagne.

James was not buying it. He had known for a while that the Alliance had been searching for ways to improve upon its infrastructure as it still reeled from the catastrophic damage it had garnered from the war. He also knew that masses of logistics officers and analysts had been dutifully scoping out potential companies to partner with, looking for ways to expand upon their supply chain, bolster their head count, and make legitimate headway with technological advances. Now, James had not been involved at all at any step of this process, but the company they were using to act as a spearhead for this program just was not sitting right with him at all.

"An outreach… with CytoSystems," James nearly growled. "Sir, if I had been aware that this was the company we were going to partner with first—"

"You were not and consequently could do nothing about it," Huston interrupted.

"If I had been aware," James continued after momentarily gritting his teeth, "I would have advised us not to pursue this partnership with Phoria—"

"_Madam_ Phoria," Huston corrected.

"_Fine_. _Madam_ Phoria," James then took a breath. "Sir, I believe that this partnership with _Madam_ Phoria has been developed in bad faith. Sir, CytoSystems is not purely an infrastructure management firm. It's a PMC."

Another pause. Another sip of the drink by Huston. "Sometimes a wider scope of activities might be considered a preferable point of comparison against the competition," Huston said, his steel eyes never wavering.

James took a slow blink, momentarily unsure of how to proceed. "Admiral… with all the trouble the Alliance has had with these PMCs… we're now openly getting into bed with them?"

"Captain," Huston extended an arm, patting James' shoulder in a close manner (though the gesture left James cold), "it does none of us any good to lump all of the private military corporations with the assumption that they are all reprobates. You do Alliance Intelligence a disservice by implying that they have not done their due diligence in researching the background for this deal."

"Bit sir… these PMCs… with all of the reports of the corruption and collateral damage, is it worth siding with one of them at all?"

"Like any corporation, Vega, it takes good governance and a good strategy of attack in order to make itself desirable. I assure you, we looked at every possible angle for this deal. Madam Phoria and CytoSystems are an exemplary template for not just how a private military should function, but as a _business_. Their finances checked out under a clean audit, and the composition of their board of directors fared well in their favor—"

"—And Alliance Intelligence just so happened to overlook the unauthorized bombing runs over on Dekunna that resulted in the deaths of ninety civilians?" James asked, causing Huston's already hard face to turn to diamond. "Not to mention the financial mess they left the moon of Winnak in when they destroyed their only gas refineries on accident without paying reparations? Ruined a sizeable investment there, if I recall. And there's also the issue of failing to provide proper police forces with provisional support prior to them departing conflict zones, allowing gang warfare to spring up like wildfire in their wake—"

Huston raised a finger, nearly poking James in the eye as the already tall marine was nearly overshadowed by the larger man's frame. Now James was able to observe the lone weapon that hung at the admiral's hip, a leather-wrapped knife handle, sheathed in a stainless case. Modified Alliance blade, issued to every non-com at the start of service. For a split-second, James had the inkling that Huston would suddenly use the knife on him.

"I'd suggest that you'd drop whatever insinuations that you are obviously so keen to bring to light, captain" Huston warned. "This is a done deal. Already printed and signed in ink. Your 'misgivings' are not going to prevent the Alliance from embarking on this partnership. Your continued protests will have no effect other than to bring you once again in conflict with your superiors, Vega. God only knows how many times we have to bring you up only to demote you when your mouth gets you into trouble. With your record, you should be a colonel by now. Yet… you linger at the rank of a captain. A captain already on the verge of being busted back down to lieutenant with this recent string of behavior, mind you. If you value your current standing in your career, you'll learn when to shut up and to actually learn the skills to become a proper diplomat. What we're doing now is not difficult. At least try to pretend that you're going along with this."

"With all due respect, sir," James' face flushed. "I didn't sign up to be a diplomat. I signed up to be a _soldier_. I fought like hell to save this galaxy—"

"—Of which everyone is grateful for your service, but there are still many more ways of which you can serve. You don't have to point a gun to save lives."

"Yet you know that my skills are wasted here!" James growled. "If I could only have the combat posting that I've requested time after time again…"

"The very same posting that I have _denied_ you time after time again?" Huston sparred evenly. "Suffice to say that your abilities would also be put to waste in such a posting, captain. Not because you wouldn't be an asset, but because you'd be obsolete. The time of keeping our soldiers on the front lines is over. Now, we're handing such duties over to the hands of corporations like CytoSystems and others established under the IAPP wing. _They'll_ be the ones fighting on our behalf so that _our_ boys will be able to accomplish more meaningful and humanitarian missions."

It was hard for James to resist the urge to scrunch up his face like he had smelled something foul. "You make it sound like we're being mothballed. Deliberately made outmoded."

The frost on Huston's face abruptly evaporated, revealing a kindly disposition. In a grandfatherly sort of gesture, the admiral placed a firm hand on James' shoulder, keeping the tall marine in place. James was unsure of what to think with this flick of the switch with Huston's attitude. The elder man was notorious for being adept at baiting his enemies into a sense of security before suddenly rearing back to bite their head off. James steeled himself, ready for the venom.

"The hard part about adaptation is that someone always gets left behind, Vega," Huston said. "It's the inevitability of progress. Accept it. We're saving Alliance lives with this deal, captain. Try to see the big picture instead of deliberately blinding yourself to what is solely in front of your face. It isn't becoming of you… and it certainly was not what Shepard saw in you, either."

Before James could get another word in, Huston turned away to go schmooze with his command counterparts, leaving the marine behind with his ears burning and an intense ringing sound in his head. Now he was glad that he had disposed of his champagne glass beforehand, because if he had still been holding it, he would have shattered the damn thing in a clenched fist. Huston's name-dropping of his old commander was not at all necessary to prove his point, James glowered. He could have at least had a bit more tact in telling him to walk the line, but he apparently went for the one button that was sure to grind his gears to a halt.

James felt alone as he stood in the middle of the room, letting random party-goers move around him like he was a lone tree standing above floodwaters. The conversations of the crowd turned into a muted and murky soup in his ears as he gradually lost all interest and concentration. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose tiredly. It was exhausting being under Huston's command both in terms of his interactions with the admiral and the fact that he was constantly beset by sheer boredom in his duties. He was practically a glorified aide at this point, doomed to serve the whim of the most powerful man in the Alliance. What would ordinarily sound like a surefire way to advance his career had been nothing but a roadblock to his progress. If this was what leadership was really like—cocktail parties, delegations, endless debates with politicians—then James was seriously considering demoting himself just to be placed in a unit nearly guaranteed to see action.

Knowing Huston though, he'd probably see fit to reassign James to Pluto as revenge for trying to get out from his duties. Rock and a hard place.

Now James figured was the time that he could use a drink.

The gathering had an open bar catering to almost every race known with an asari bartender standing patiently by to take orders from the patrons, the facsimile of a solar flare rising from a lake of fire into a ripple of ice and vacuum dramatically burning behind the alien. James made a beeline to an empty spot in front of the counter.

"And what can I get for you?" the asari smiled.

"Bourbon," was James' gruff response. "No ice."

It looked like the asari was about to ask James if he had a specific brand in mind, but she was perceptive enough to sense that the marine was not really in a talking mood. It only took the bartender a quick moment before she settled on a bottle of Maker's and poured James a healthy dram.

James took the glass, nodding to the bartender as thanks, and swallowed a large gulp of the bourbon. He had to clench his throat to prevent him from coughing out loud. The alcohol was burning a path all the way down his throat, leaving aftertaste of thick smoke and burnt oak wood in its wake. James slowly exhaled, imagining that he was blowing out the wavy alcohol vapors as he did so. Sweet respite. Yes, this glass certainly hinted at easier times ahead. Now he was looking forward to the next sip.

"Not even lunchtime and you're already getting loaded?" A low and husky voice suddenly emitted from his left. "Tsk, tsk, Vega. And on duty too? Since when did _you_ get so ballsy?"

Blinking, James slowly turned and found himself facing a slender woman decked out in a leather jacket and matching pants, both horrifyingly cut in bizarre angles that was harsh on the eyes. Thick combat boots raised her off the ground by an inch. Tattoos depicting bizarre patterns and esoteric shapes threatened to spill out from the sleeves, running up the exposed flesh of her hands, where on one set of knuckles, the word "DEATH" was spelled out plainly in black ink. The tattoos curled up the skin of her neck and onto the sides of her head, where the sides around her ears were shaved clean while the rest of her hair spilled out behind her gracefully, unrestrained by any sort of hairband.

James smirked as he recognized the woman right off the bat, choosing to take the next sip and embrace the welcome familiarity. "I'm living by the old saying, '_It's five o'clock somewhere._' As are you, judging by what you're having, Jack."

The woman named Jack flashed a teasing grin as she glanced down at the chilled cocktail she gripped in a bony and colorful hand. "You remember that one drink isn't enough to have an effect on me? The biotic implants, they—"

"—They increased your metabolism to the point where it's difficult for you to get drunk, I remember," James finished. "Not just any sort of lightweight. And I was being facetious."

"Ooh, careful, marine," Jack laughed. "Use any more of those big words and you'll hurt yourself."

James wearily sighed, but was secretly grateful for the company. "I see that you still have yet to learn the meaning of the word 'sensitivity.' Why am I not surprised?" He then gave a pause as he appraised the woman in front of him serenely, succumbing to a warm chuckle. "It's great to see you again, Jack. I was thinking that I was only going to have my thoughts for company here, judging by this crowd."

Now Jack finally gave a smile that revealed a row of perfectly straight teeth, her throaty voice culminating in a pleasant laugh. The fire in James' mind died down a bit at that. Jack had been recruited into Shepard's team some months before James had, for the now famous suicide mission against the Collectors. She had parted ways with Shepard briefly after that, and while James had never technically worked alongside her when he was serving on the Normandy, they had fought next to one another on several battlefields during the war. Grissom Academy. London. Berlin. Jack was one of Shepard's most loyal compatriots, perhaps having a stronger bond to the man than James could see from the outside. From what he had heard about her in the beginning, Jack had been on the fringe of being a complete sociopath when she first ran into Shepard. Not all that surprising, considering the edgy tattoos that still draped the woman's skin.

Jack was lean, rail-thin, and prided herself on having an independent streak. Once a captive of Cerberus and a guinea pig for their illegal experiments, Jack had been living life as a convict before Shepard had found her in a spaceward prison and had recruited her for his team. She was an explosive warrior with biotics, fearless yet prone to anger. She was standoffish to any new person that crossed her path, but James found that once you gained her trust, Jack was a strong friend to have, a good person to have watching your back.

He liked her immensely. Found a lot of qualities to respect in the woman. Jack, despite her somewhat aggressive appearance, had a good head on her shoulders and that was something that James noticed was a rare commodity in this day and age.

"I'm not going to lie," Jack replied, "I actually _missed_ your dumb face, Vega."

And… there was Jack's behavior. Years down the road and James _still_ thought it could use some work. Tact was not one of the woman's strong suits.

He did not take it personally. It was in Jack's nature to rib her friends whenever she saw fit. Her enemies got it a whole lot worse. For good reason, considering her sorry history.

James swirled his drink as he considered Jack thoughtfully, tilting his head back towards Phoria. "You, uh, here for the announcement, Jack?"

"Hell no," Jack shrugged, her lip curling. "I like to gate-crash these shindigs. You can always grab a plateful of free food from the buffet before someone musters the courage to stop you. Hotels are the best places for this but Citadel Tower comes in a close second as a venue to hit." She then waited, staring straight at James' unamused face, waiting for him to crack, before she finally broke the fib. "Gah, you're so _serious_, marine. I had an _invitation_. Satisfied?"

"Only partially," James said before he took another swallow of his bourbon.

"Okay, so I've told you my reason for being here. Spill yours."

"Volun-told," James gritted. "Admiral Huston's orders."

"Yeesh. Sucks to be you."

"Remind me never to come to you for a shoulder to cry on," James drolly shot back.

Jack laughed, thoroughly enjoying yourself. "The sight of you bawling your eyes out? I'd rather take a vid and post it to the extranet."

James rolled his eyes and circled a finger, tracing the outlines of the room. "Truly I am lucky for having such sympathetic friends. But, you said you were invited here, eh? Interesting. Were you involved in this deal with…" James screwed up his face, as if he had bit down on something unpleasant, "…'Madam' Phoria?"

Jack shot a look back towards the quarian surrounded by doe-eyed worshippers before making a blithe shake of her head. "Never seen the woman before until today. You?"

"Same for me. This is also the first I've heard about this deal with her company. I just don't know why I had to be here, of all places. I didn't do anything. I wasn't involved."

"Most likely they probably wanted a photo op," Jack said as she pointed overhead to spot a trio of camera drones lazily surveying the party. "Score a big deal, bring the media, and invite a couple of the good old Normandy crew for legitimacy? I think we were suckers for this arrangement, Vega, despite what our occupations might be."

"No kidding," James muttered as he started to walk over to the balcony, keeping his eye on the drones overhead in case they decided to swoop over for a better angle.

The two quickly rushed past the automatic glass doors and out into the bulbous pod that constituted the overlook. They were the only two here—everyone else was hanging around back inside. From here, James and Jack had an amazing view of several of the station's arms, able to witness the segmented city grids springing up from each of the blade-like annexes. There was a distinct pulse to the Citadel, a synthetic rhythm that echoed in the surging skycar lanes and the static hum of zero-g. The throbbing brightness of the planet down below wafted in a heavenly glow, casting aside the darkness of space.

"So," James started after the two leaned against the glass railing, their backs pressed against the transparent canopy, "a seasoned Alliance biotic corps instructor and me, a past-his-prime soldier, all here for the same event. Maybe the universe does have a sense of humor. You still work part-time over at Grissom, Jack?"

Jack bit her lip as she waited to answer. "Whenever I have the chance, though the Alliance has been pulling me aside more and more frequently to run special drills for their own biotic soldiers over at their bases down on Earth. I object every time, but they _are_ the ones paying my salary. I've got to pay the rent on my apartment somehow, you know?"

Shortly after parting ways with Shepard, Jack had integrated herself as an instructor on Grissom Academy, the premier teaching institution in Alliance space. She had been offered a position as a biotics instructor and she had proved to be a rather effective one. Her students all loved her, with many of them citing her as "unconventional" and "acerbic" but was also known to be very affectionate to the kids under her charge. She kept the position after the war, continuing to train children of all ages. Since she was technically under the employ of the Alliance, she was given the rank of sergeant, though it was mostly ceremonial as Jack never had much use for military doctrine, nor could she care all that much.

James nodded as he swirled his drink absentmindedly, ignoring the swooping of skycars as they passed uncomfortably close to the tower. "One would think that, with this whole show back in there being a done deal, you won't have to devote as much of your time to the Alliance troops now that they're being pulled off the front lines and replaced."

"Here's hoping," Jack made a mock toast with her glass and drained the remainder in one large gulp. Wiping her mouth, she carelessly tossed the empty glass out of her hand, where it shattered on the tiled floor a few feet away. Watching the spectacle, James could only wryly chuckle. That was just how Jack was, never one to mince manners.

"How _are_ your students doing? Last I heard they've all been—"

"They're fine," Jack's tone abruptly turned gruff. She looked away, as if she was disinterested with this conversation. "Couldn't be happier with what they're doing."

"…Have any of them continued to remain in the Alliance?" James tried again, a bit apprehensive at this sudden and cold shift. "Or have they moved on to civilian life?

Jack glared at him, as if he had somehow crossed a line. "Some continue to serve," she finally said after a beat. "Others took dull desk jobs. Many started families. And some… well, you get the picture."

_I suppose I do_, James thought as he finished off the last of his bourbon. Unlike Jack, he continued to hold onto the empty glass. If there was something that Jack wished to keep locked within herself, James figured that it would not do to pry. He had seen firsthand what happened to people who made the mistake of getting under the woman's skin. The results had not been pretty.

The two let another moment of silence pass them by, both resorting to people-watching in that time. James' eyes glazed over as he glanced from person to person, finding only chilled and glassy fronts composing masks of disinterest on each of their faces. Either that, or he was drunk.

"It's just a fucking disgrace in there," Jack muttered out loud, disgusted as well at the clientele separated by the glass windows.

"My sentiments exactly," James said.

"You see, it used to be that people with any shred of common sense would steer clear of people like Phoria and companies like hers," Jack gestured with an aggressive finger towards the party. "Did they learn nothing when Shepard had that trouble with Chimera years ago? Or do I have to give them all a reminder what Cerberus did to me when I was just a scared shitless little girl?"

James glanced upward towards the spire of the tower. "Technically… Cerberus wasn't a PMC. A paramilitary group, more like. Completely different, if you—" He halted himself as soon as he realized that Jack was now staring daggers at him again. "You want me to stop with the semantics?"

"Fucking please?" Jack drawled.

"It was all in the interest of accuracy, but I do concede your point. This is just another mistake that we have yet to learn from. They all fawn over this woman, Phoria, because of the supposed services she brings to the table. Logistical and armed support. As if the Alliance can't handle its own problems? It's like no one in that room has listened to a newscast and connected the dots. PMCs can't be trusted."

Jack now turned herself sideways as she leaned once more onto the railing. She brushed at her hair as she took on a pensive look. "You said that you only heard about this deal with Phoria today, right?"

"That's right," James nodded.

"Did you ever, by chance, hear of her company before today as well? CytoSystems?"

"I took a look at the company literature on the way over here," James said, "but that probably doesn't mean much. I don't pay attention to financial or business matters with these companies all that often. I just read enough to figure out that their main business is mercenary contracts. Classic PMC work. But, I have to admit, it's strange."

"What's strange?"

"I mean," James now fidgeted for a second, "not to be racist or anything… but how does a quarian become the CEO of a multi-planetary corporation? I know that sounds bad, especially since there are so many quarians out there who are probably capable of the job…"

"Yeah," Jack chuckled, "Tali would probably come back from the dead just to kick your ass for saying that."

"…but _come on_. You don't think it's weird at all?"

"Oh, I agree that it's fucking weird," Jack said. "Weirder still is that I also looked up the company's history before I got here, at least all the information that I could publicly access. Phoria was not the founder of CytoSystems, nor did she ever serve the company in a managerial position."

"What, are you saying she was recruited from somewhere else? Like, another company?"

Jack shook her head. "There's no record of her being an employee anywhere else. She just… shows up one day after the original CEO passed away and took over the corporation. It was done completely legally, from what I read. But beyond that, nothing else."

"Very, very odd," James murmured.

Now both of them were looking back up at the sky where the stars were blinking through the black-violet night. They momentarily tracked the paths of cargo freighters, military vessels, and cruise liners as they shot through space. The quietus greedily made its presence known in the confined space, eager to snuff out the tempting noise from the party.

"You've now got me curious," James lips faintly curled into a smile. "And just when I had been at my wit's end with this place. Convenient."

"You're now thinking it too, aren't you?"

"If by 'it' you mean that the Alliance is possibly acting irrationally by pursuing this deal with an enigmatic company and its even more enigmatic founder?"

Jack's grin turned toothy. "The thought once planted…"

"Ordinarily I'd settle to keep my nose out of things I never understood. I guess I'll soon see if this ends up biting me in the ass." He checked his chronometer. "You free a couple hours from now?"

"I'm not on anyone's time."

James drew himself in close, keeping his voice low as he quickly darted his gaze to the side, in case anyone was watching from indoors.

"Three o'clock. Greenwich Time. In front of the Bureau of Corporations over on the first arm. We'll leave separately, so as not to draw suspicion."

Jack's eyes glittered momentarily as she found a brief shred of hope from her synchrony with James' intent.

"All right," Jack shrugged. "I'm intrigued. What's at the Bureau of Corporations?"

"If we're lucky, a complete record of CytoSystems' business history and dealings. The kind of stuff that isn't ordinarily made public. As Alliance personnel, we're automatically granted clearance to view some of those documents. If there's any place to start investigating, it's there."

"_Investigating_," Jack's tongue rolled across the word. "You make it sound as if we're cops."

James straightened his posture, almost preening from the positive connotations, despite Jack's intent at making out to be a nuisance.

"As long as we're doing this for what we think is right, then I don't care what we look or sound like."

"Whatever suits you, marine," Jack said sultrily as she plucked James' empty glass from his hands, tossing it between her own appendages, never taking her eyes off the man's tanned face. "Three o'clock. Out in front, yes? Better get there early, Vega. I'm not one to wait."

She then bent her wrist and gave the glass a light toss, the drink container tumbling from her palm and sparkling as it caught the starlight above.

"Why would you-?!" James only had time to say before the glass smashed itself to pieces on the ground, the latest drinkware casualty as a result of the callous indifference of an ex-convict.

* * *

_Huerta Memorial Hospital_

The elevator deposited Roahn and Shepard up onto one of Huerta's many levels that looked indistinguishable from any other in the building. White corridors, polished tiles, bustling staff in lab coats. The sight was as commonplace as in any hospital.

Shepard led the way down the hall, only keeping half a pace ahead of his daughter. He took a backwards glance at Roahn. She seemed to be holding up well. No hitch in her gait and no lingering cough that would otherwise denote an infection in her respiratory system. Her eyes locked far down the passageway, keeping her head constantly on a swivel as though as she expected danger to burst from any of the doors ahead of her.

Roahn's enviro-suit had been pieced all back together upon her body. The only noticeable difference was that the suit had been slightly modified to wrap around the stump of her arm, the shortened limb now clinging tightly to Roahn's side. Three gold studs glittered right at the edge of the amputated end of the limb, circular and dotted with circuitry. Other than that, there was no evidence that she was afflicted in any way by an injury. She kept her chin held high, making a visible effort to overcome her disability.

"I'm proud of you, you know," Shepard warmly smiled as he held back a half-second, now walking shoulder to shoulder with Roahn. "You've been so brave through this whole process."

Roahn pulled a dismissive expression behind her lake-blue visor. "It was either that or whimper like a coward."

"There is no correlation between being injured and being a coward," Shepard lightly chided. "There's no shame in it. It is _expected_ for a soldier to become injured. What differs is how we react afterward."

"All part of the trade, is that it?"

"It's either that, or be seen as arrogant," Shepard shrugged. "You know, after every battle against the Reapers I fought in, I was never all pristine and mighty like many of the broadcast reports supposedly showed. In reality, I was a bloody mess collapsed in the shower every night, exhausted beyond all belief."

Roahn waited a beat. "But you never lost an arm."

"True. I never lost an arm. But do you know what would have happened if I had?"

"What?"

"I would have found a way to make it work. Which is what you're doing right now. Don't beat yourself up, dear. This is, like you said, all part of the trade."

Both of them kept on walking, ignoring the views out of the windows as they travelled across several walkways spanning the Presidium. They disregarded the square lakes that continuously gurgled water in large fountains down below as well as the segmented overhangs filled with long curtains of vine-like vegetation that spilled from one counter to another. High above in the tower-like structure, their perspective put them on another plateau, only cognizant of their most immediate surroundings.

"It's going to be interesting," Roahn finally said after a minute of silence between them. "You and me, working together. Both commanders in our own right."

Shepard rasped a dry laugh. "I think I already know what you're getting at, honey."

_You probably do_, Roahn thought. "How exactly is this… going to work? I mean, you being my father and all, but serving on the same ship too… is this going to lead to any awkward situations?"

"Roahn," Shepard spread his arms magnanimously. "I'd trust the chain of command on this one. You know what that entails?"

"Do I?"

"Simple. I'm only the designated consultant. You're the XO of Umbra. Between the two of us, you have the higher rank. Or do you think I'm going to have a problem with delegating?"

"I don't know," Roahn admitted. "I didn't really think of it until just a few minutes ago."

"Well, I know I'm not going on any of the combat missions, that's for damn sure," Shepard gave a hasty grin as he rotated his arms haltingly. "Medical would never clear me in my condition."

"I'm sorry. Are you hurting much?"

Shepard shrugged, appearing stoic. "It has its good and bad days. I can't grip a weapon so good anymore. And I can't run very far without breaking down into coughs. I'm holding out as long as I can, Roahn. Trying to make every year count from now on."

"I… I don't want to talk about this, dad. It's not the right time. I'm just happy that you're here. Really, I am. Everyone's commander, that's you."

"Not this time," Shepard now stepped closer, stopping in the middle of the hall while his face fell serious. "Garrus picked _you_ specifically to be his second-in-command for this team. Not me. Even if he did, I would have refused. That being said, with the two of you as my superiors, I have a duty to follow all your lawful orders, Roahn. You're _my_ commander this time."

"It's going to feel a little weird," Roahn chuckled, but feeling relief bubble within her regardless.

"We've got a lot of time to figure things out. Plus, I think it'll be amusing, being subservient to my own daughter. Personally, I think that it's about damn time that you've been given this chance, Roahn. Or, is that 'Commander Shepard' now?"

Roahn explosively sighed, the shape of her eyes dramatically slitting into an exasperated position. "_Dad_…"

The human mischievously winked at her, truly enjoying the occasional poke at his daughter. "This might lead to something after all," she heard him whisper in a sing-song voice as he now continued to their destination, his hands clasped behind his back in a carefree manner. Rolling her eyes, Roahn caught back up to him, utterly amazed at how easy it was for Shepard to flick the switch and be such a relaxed presence, despite the twists and turns that life had thrown at him.

It was easy to spot the room they were looking for: Garrus was standing right in front of it. He spread his arms wide in greeting as he spotted Roahn and Shepard off in the distance, walking forward to close the gap. He approached Roahn first, his eyes alight with excitement.

"I'm glad you're here," he said to her as he affectionately placed his hands upon her shoulders, much like a parent would. "Not just for this decision, but glad that you're up and doing all right."

Roahn dipped her head, leaning into the turian a tad. "Thank you, Garrus. You might also have to thank my father as well. He… helped me figure out what was the right thing to do."

Shepard shook his head behind her. "The choice was all hers. I only laid the cards out on the table."

"Regardless," Garrus said. "I'm happy that the both of you are going to be with me. Truly, I am. You don't know how much I would have given just for us to work together once more. Like the good old days, but better."

"True," Shepard murmured as he idly scratched his neck. "No Reapers this time around."

Now Garrus moved to wrap Shepard in a gigantic bear hug, having given Roahn his attention first as a courtesy. The human gagged as his slightly weakened frame was brutally assaulted by the turian's enthusiasm, but he accepted the joy of the gesture all the same, slapping his hands upon Garrus' back so hard that it made Roahn wince. However, the two friends were all smiles as they parted, having never lost the brotherhood that had bonded them together from their travels.

"Come," Garrus gestured to the door. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

The trio walked through the entryway and into what appeared to Roahn to be a sophisticated robotics lab. The décor was modern and sterile to an impressive degree, even for a hospital. Desks with embedded tops made out of frosted glass swerved around the room, turning it into a maze. Racks of recently polished machinery rotated on turnstiles, lit by the glow of various anatomical holograms, each one depicting different body systems of different races, lining the room in a kind of faux armory of the macabre.

At the back of the room, a human male in a long white coat sat hunched over a datapad, twirling a stylus between his fingers. He did not seem to notice their presence as he hummed a tune to himself.

"Umbra Team's chief medical officer," Garrus announced to Shepard and Roahn as they slowly approached the human from behind. "Came highly recommended from many influential members in the field. Skilled in xenobiology, trained in arthroscopy, experienced in bionics, and tested in battle as a combat medic. For his price, we got ourselves a genuine professional here, guys."

"_Hah!_"

The man in the coat's harsh laugh was enough to make everyone jump where they stood. He then turned around upon his stool, now free to gaze at the turian with a most decidedly unamused expression, revealing a thickly bearded face and a head full of ruffled brown hair, tiny specks of gray starting to pop up near the temples. "You're so full of shit, Vakarian. I know you're trying to be polite in beefing up my resume to these two, but you and I both know that I was at the top of a very short list for this position because of our previous working association, if you could call it that. Me, I call it being denied a much-deserved retirement with the wife now that you've dragged me along into this team of yours."

Garrus adopted a hasty look as he quickly turned towards Roahn and Shepard. "Okay, just so we're clear," he explained, "all I did was ask this dolt once if he wanted to be a part of what we're doing. He thought for only three seconds—I timed it—and accepted without much convincing. His _wife_ was even all for the idea, believe it or not! Don't know if it was because she wanted him out of the house or if she thought that he could do some good for the galaxy, though."

"And I'm _already_ regretting my decision, Vakarian," the human called out. "I'm getting the feeling that I just signed myself up for indentured servitude, considering the heavy hitters that you're bringing on board means that we're probably going to be involved in some pretty serious work. Going beyond the job description a bit there, pal."

"If you feel that you're being exploited, doc," Garrus gestured back the way he came with a thumb, "the door is right over there."

"Ah, I'd be lucky if you were to be so overt."

"As if I were to somehow trick you into doing the morally right thing? Nah. Too much effort."

The human laughed, seemingly enjoying the banter. "Oh, are you now implying that I have a soul, Vakarian?" He elicited a mock gasp for effect. "Blasphemy, coming from you."

Garrus rolled his eyes and smiled as best as a turian could smile, despite himself. "I think your constant self-deprecation is going to grow old real soon."

"We'll see. I do have the tendency to run a joke into the ground."

Shepard took a step forward, bringing himself between the doctor and Garrus as he looked back upon his friend in exasperation. "For god's sake. Are we going to be subject to this between you two the entire time?" He quickly glanced back between Garrus and the doctor in an attempt to defuse the nonexistent tension.

"Hey, _he_ started it," Garrus responded with mirth.

"Wait," Roahn stammered as she had to push Garrus aside, realizing that she recognized this human. That gruff tone, the biting but affectionate pull of his words. Definitely familiar. "Wait… _Sam?!_"

"Unfortunately for all of us," Sam McLeod affirmed as he got up from his stool, wincing as his broad frame now seemed to exert its own gravity upon the room. "I am here." He then vividly relaxed as he dropped his previously icy pretense, a front that he had erected for his verbal confrontation with Garrus—their shared custom. "Hello, Roahn. I heard what happened to you a few days ago. Glad to see that you're up and about."

Roahn almost broke out into a jog as she hurried over to where Sam was standing. The human kept his hands clasped in front of him, respectful, as he laid a tender look upon the young quarian.

Sam McLeod was a tall specimen of a human. In his middle fifties, he still retained a surprising amount of youth locked behind his steel-blue eyes that hinted at a far-away sadness, all echoing within his very gaze. Powerfully built, the man looked like he could have been an athlete many decades ago, even though he had mentioned repeatedly that he had harbored no such inclinations at any point in his life. Despite his rugged verbiage and even more tousled appearance, he had a light, easy nature about him that Roahn admired. Sam had his own special way of making others comfortable around him—it was probably why Garrus had become such good friends with him in the interim.

Roahn had first met Sam over fifteen years ago, back when she and her father had been running from Chimera's mercenaries. When they were in dire need of safe harbor, it had been Garrus who had suggested that they all turn to Sam for passage, his only association being that he had been a patient of the human's at an earlier time. Sam McLeod, himself an admirer of Shepard and his crew's exploits, had taken them all in and ferried them to his house down near the city of Santa Cruz, giving them all a place to rest and regroup before planning their next set of moves. Roahn had also met Sam's wife Nya, a fiercely dedicated quarian who was a loving partner to Sam and had always treated Roahn with adoration, and his daughter Taylor, also a quarian and practically the same age as she was.

Taylor and Roahn had bonded as close friends almost immediately. The two frequently kept up communications long after the craziness with Chimera had blown over. They loved the same movies, listened to the same music, and had fun exchanging stories about their lives. On special occasions, Shepard and Sam would organize times to get the girls to hang out in person, knowing that friendships across holo-screens was nothing like the real thing. Roahn spent many days at Sam's house with Taylor, staying up late at night to play video games, watch scary vids from Sam's home library, or chat aimlessly about the most benign of topics. Roahn still kept up a schedule with Taylor these days as they made sure to organize a video conference once every few weeks to catch up. Sam, in that time, had become quite a familiar presence in her life, which was why it was so startling to see him here in this capacity.

"_You're_ going to be coming with us?" an astonished Roahn asked around breathy laughs of disbelief. "You're really Umbra's new medical officer?"

Sam spread his arms magnanimously. "_Against my better judgment_," he drawled before realizing that he had slipped back into his self-deprecating nature again. "I'm to be the guy assigned to patch all of you up in case you get hurt out in the field. Bumps, bruises, mild cases of disembowelment, that sort of thing. I'm also handling the procurement of the 'special ointment' for this new itch that Garrus picked up over from his last visit to the strip club."

"Damn it, Sam!" Garrus barked.

Sam laughed, having gotten the reaction he had hoped for, and winked at Roahn. "Only joking. Well… just partially. Anyway, you get injured out there, you come to me. The nice thing about having your own team medic? You don't have any copay. That's right, no obscene fees for medication or services here. And don't worry about any preexisting conditions. It's all covered, you're to get the best with Umbra."

"My day's just getting better and better, now that I know you're joining us," Roahn said as she tenderly laid a hand upon Sam's shoulder (who modestly turned away, almost like he was embarrassed from the attention). She then turned to Garrus. "Are you just going to recruit every single important person in my life to this team?"

"Don't get your hopes up," Sam answered in Garrus' stead. "Nya and Taylor are back over on Earth. They've got their own careers to focus on, and Garrus figured that a familiar face would help with your healing. And I think that he has a point, as much as it _pains_ me to say."

"Yes, and… how is Taylor these days? And Nya, too. I haven't seen her in, _Keelah_… how long has it been… a few years?"

"Nya's doing well. She's moving up the ranks in management for that capital ship manufacturer near Seattle. She's expecting a promotion within the year. As for Taylor, she just started working at a biopharma startup over in Milan as a lab director. You know her, she's always been interested in the hard sciences."

"I do know," Roahn affirmed, nodding. Taylor had gone to a university specializing in chemistry and organic compounds and had done quite well with her studies. "She told me about it when she got the job a few months back. You must be so proud of her, Sam."

"I am. Every day."

The human briefly turned contemplative as he held the image of his own daughter in his head. Roahn saw a lot of Shepard in this man and it was not because of the similarities between their family makeups, but the exact same connections and empathetic glimmers of warmth that elicited whenever the conversations turned to their loved ones. Shepard had it, she had noticed over the years, but it was usually in those private and intimate moments of self-reflection did her own father's love seem to overwhelm him, but he had never before allowed himself to be consumed by such feelings in front of her.

The moment passed and attention quickly returned to Sam as he resumed his warm grin back towards her. "Now, shall we attend to your new arm? Small talk can wait on account of this."

"You're…" Roahn started as Sam led her over to one of the clouded ice-glass desks in the middle of the room. "You're helping me with my prosthesis _too?_"

"Oh," Sam laughed as he touched a button, "you have no idea."

From within the desk rose two cylindrical drum-like barrels, each one consisting of an alloy spine and spindly racks holding several metallic appendages all arranged in a rotating display. Each individual appendage was slightly different from the other: some were of dissimilar colors, others had clamps on the end instead of digits, and some even had visible weapons attached while others did not.

Roahn knelt down and stared at the array of prosthetic limbs presented before her with wide eyes, all exhibited in a glorious arrangement for her to choose. The opportunity to select the missing piece. Her cure beckoned.

"You'd be surprised how far the field of bionics has come since the last century," Sam said as he pressed another button, causing both of the racks inside the cylindrical cases to unfold, displaying the ten prosthesis in rows, each one plugged into their own dedicated charging port. "Whereas it was a long and expensive process to get one of these made at the beginning of this field's invention, we can now start designing and manufacturing these things in a matter of days. They're all made out of titanium alloy, capable of delivering hundreds of pounds of force in the grip alone. Features shock-absorbing technology, a long-lasting fusion battery capable of lasting a full solar year, and powerful hydraulics for increased strength."

Extending a tentative finger, Roahn lightly nudged a silvery model, her knees still bent that she was at eye level with the prosthetic limbs. "And… these are all for me?"

"They're all custom-made to the exact dimensions of your missing arm. However, you probably will only need one arm. Many of the limbs you see here are remarkably similar to each other. We're just presenting you with an array of choices, for now. Most of the differences are all cosmetic anyway, like in the color of the decorative metal coverings. Each one is rated to survive immense pressure and extreme temperature. And, here's the best part, you have the ability to customize all of these to your heart's content with the addition of chipsets."

"Chipsets?" Roahn asked.

"Oh yeah," Sam nodded. He grabbed a limb decked out in black and fire-red colors and displayed it proudly. "Much like omni-tools, we have the ability to install chipsets to prosthetic limbs directly. That means that it doesn't draw power away from the omni-tool, but from the installed battery. This gives you increased voltage that goes into any abilities you decide to insert, giving everything a power boost."

"Really? So… what sort of abilities do I have on tap?"

"All sorts, really. We've installed a few generic mods into all of these limbs for your test runs, but a lot of these can activate a full-body shield, protecting you from danger at a moment's notice. This one," Sam hefted the limb he was already holding, "I believe has a built-in flamethrower. Handy in case you need to burninate the countryside. Or… this one has the options to extend spikes out of the knuckles for added punishment. It would certainly be an appropriate attire for the Thunderdome. Some of these have swappable joints so that you can quickly change between clamps or drills instead of your usual hands, in case you were interested in becoming a Swiss army knife. And… let's see—"

"How about this one?" Roahn asked as she reached out to pluck a dark gray appendage from the display. The overhead lights streamed delicately off of the matte finish, but the knuckles were still meticulously polished, briefly blinding her with the dappled motes as the light beamed straight into her eyes through her visor. The three fingers upon the limb dangled limply and Roahn hefted the tool in her hand for a moment. There was a nice weight to it. The color… it was the same as her skin. Yes, this one seemed right. There would be no gaudy colors adorning her. This way it would be easy to view this as an extension of herself. A definitive reminder of her not to fall into despair.

Sam leaned over and looked at the limb that Roahn had appeared to have chosen. "It will be a fitting model, indeed. The chipset on this one is for an extendable omni-sword, actually. Gives you striking range of a least a meter. And, like I said, the chip runs off the prosthetic's battery, which means you can theoretically use your omni-tool to engage another blade on your right arm. Dual-wielding's all the rage, you know. But, you can always swap out the chips at your whim, remember. So… do you want to stick with the omni-sword for now? Is it something you're trained with or you think there's something else that fits your style?"

"I have training with bladed weapons," Roahn replied, her tone now taking on a slightly gruff edge, but that quickly disappeared as she turned to Sam eagerly, her eyes wide with anticipation. "When can I try it on?"

"Hell, right now, if you'd like."

That gave Roahn a start. "So soon?"

"Uh-huh. Did you notice the electrodes that had been placed onto your arm outside the suit?"

Roahn peered down at her stump, remembering what Sam was talking about. She glanced at the end of where her enviro-suit covered her terrible wound, a rounded curve of malleable mesh doing its best to hide her new horrific reminder. She spotted the three circular sections of electronics, each the size of a small washer, rimmed with gold upon her stump. One mystery solved.

"I didn't know those were electrodes," Roahn admitted.

Sam gestured to Roahn's arm. "After you were injured, the medics went to work at modifying your suit a bit to accommodate a prosthesis, correctly guessing that that was going to be the choice that you were going to make. They added the electrodes and a locking mechanism for the limb. What the electrodes do is they pick up the myoelectric signals generated by your body—they are pressed up against your skin on the other end—and they translate that into movement in your prosthesis. As with all myoelectric control mechanisms, there will be some control lag, but we've managed to nail that bottleneck down to less than a hundredth of a second. With any luck, it won't be noticed, but it will be there. It's up to you to figure out the drawbacks, if there are any." He then gently took the limb from Roahn and angled the receiving end towards her maimed arm. "Are you ready?"

Roahn did not hesitate. "Go ahead," she uttered through a nearly choked windpipe.

Sam was a professional, through and through. He did not pause to give the situation any dramatic effect. There was no gravitas to his movements, no corny declarations that would have otherwise been at home for a more insipid recipient. He simply moved his arms forward and, with three light and tender clicks, Roahn felt a tremor run up her left arm as the prosthesis was fastened where the limb had been cut off. The odd pressure exerted there momentarily made her draw in breath as she briefly recalled her own blood and gore squirting through Raucous' mouth, but she relaxed as she forced herself to look down, her metallic limb oddly seeming right at home attached to her body.

Still holding the prosthesis aloft, Sam took a few deep breaths as he fixated Roahn with a stern gaze. "Okay, Roahn, now I need you to listen. Your arm is all good to go, but getting it to move is going to be the next step. It won't be challenging, but it will be different. I need you to think of your left hand. Keep that hand firmly locked in your mind. Recall how it felt to wiggle each individual feel. Is that still something that's easy for you to do?"

"Yes," was Roahn's breathy answer.

"Very good. Keep wiggling those fingers in your head. I want you to remember that sensation. It's a familiar situation, no? And now comes the big moment. With all this going on in your mind, I want you to _reach_ out and make a fist with your hand. Are you ready?"

The tremble that ran down Roahn refused to continue past the flesh of her stump. Her toes jittered uncontrollably and everything outside of her direct line of sight turned into a frothy soup as her vision deteriorated. Her right arm, acting on its own accord, clenched into its own fist, perhaps in reassurance of her own ability to repeat the movement on her opposite side.

"I'm ready."

"Then go."

Roahn squeezed her eyes shut as her brain flared, the will to move her left fingers radiating throughout every single nerve in her body. Her entire mind seemed to brighten and she reflexively clenched as she imagined the sensation scurrying down the roots of her arm, burrowing underneath the skin and muscle to find the tender nerve and gnaw upon it until it got the message.

Without a sound, Roahn stared as the fingers on the prosthesis quickly curled. A fist.

"Eureka," Sam simply stated.

An uncontrollable surge of laughter, tameless and completely reactionary, burst from Roahn's throat. Pure exhilaration was dumped into her veins, pumping all throughout her blood. A single stream of her tears dribbled unseen, the pure emotion too much for her to hold back in that one moment.

She had to try that again! Roahn's smile tensed as she imagined her fingers now splaying outward as far as they could go. Almost immediately, the prosthesis reacted to her will, the three fingers shining under the bright light, sending out towers of flares to spiral across the curve of her visor.

"Incredible…" she said as she was now able to waggle each individual finger in turn. The movements were fluid and precise, not at all jerky or lethargic. In seconds, Roahn was making fists multiple times over, her grip growing stronger and stronger with each set.

Everyone in the room was exhibiting a similar energy, each one touched by Roahn's euphoria at regaining her arm back. Sam lifted his hands away, now allowing Roahn to move the arm on her own free well. Her elbow bent back and forth so smoothly she wondered if the joint had just been freshly lubricated. She twisted her wrist in all directions, extended and bent her elbow, and continued to make fists with her fingers all the while, already putting the limb through its entire range of motions.

"The wonders of modern medicine," Sam observed as he watched Roahn give in to her awe. "Science of uncertainty and art of probability. We've just gotten better at the probability part."

Roahn now looked to Sam, reverence reverberating through her. "_Thank you_. Thank you, Sam. I… this is amazing. It's like I can almost feel the limb!"

"That would be because the limb has feedback and positioning sensors installed within it," Sam pointed out, his grin broadening from Roahn's appreciation. "It gives you basic tactile information in the form of data that your body processes as the barest form of sensation. You'll be able to know what position your hand is always in, whether an object is hot or cold, or if someone touches you on the wrist. You can't feel any pain—what you will feel is akin to the sensation one gets if a narcotic is applied to deep tissue. Try not to go too overboard, though. Even though you can't be hurt there anymore doesn't mean that you should take any further risks."

"I'll try to remember," Roahn dutifully nodded. "Thank you."

Sam said nothing but instead held out his hand for Roahn to shake. His left hand. After some hesitation, Roahn extended her own left hand, privately worrying about crushing the human's hand from accidentally clenching down too tightly, but, as she accepted the offered appendage (while being able to tell, to her astonishment, that she was gripping warm flesh) she breathed out a sigh of relief as her fingers fit in comfortably against Sam's.

"I look forward to seeing you in action, _commander_," Sam grinned.

Overcome in just that split-second, Roahn willed for her fingers to detach from Sam's hand, the movements from her limb noticeably becoming easier and easier to accomplish, to her satisfaction. She held up her hand, watching the tantalizing swirls of illumination warp from the matte plates upon her palm. She tried to imagine the metal in her limb coursing with power. There was a distinct thrum about her. Her breath stilted, she elegantly curved the tips of her fingers, imagining the collective beating heart of her enemy was nestled atop them. She breathed in and out, already fantasizing the satisfying noise the metaphorical organ would make when she clenched down hard. Her hand made no noise as it stiffened into a terrifying paw, resonating with explosive energy.

But the anger soon faded. In its place was a distinct sense of solace. A time of assuagement. Hope, even. To have gone from the pits of despair, completely at her lowest, to now this. She ran her right hand along the length of the prosthesis. She had been broken for sport, tossed aside like a damaged toy. Fate and her own will had clawed her back to life.

As Roahn scanned the faces all gazing at her with delight as they beheld her newly invigorated, Roahn searched for the face of the one she knew she needed to see the most. Just behind Sam and Garrus, Shepard appraised her with a knowing tilt of his head, a frozen smile on his face, small and subtle yet broadcasting his own pleasure, amplified a thousand unto Roahn's understanding. The father gave the daughter a slight nod, his own way of expressing his profound love.

And, Roahn realized, his way of warning her of the dangers ahead.

* * *

The loading docks and garbage bays of the Citadel's underside slid across Roahn's vision as the elevator ferried all four of them: Shepard, Garrus, Sam, and her, up to the docks, where—according to Garrus—Umbra's own ship was waiting. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, letting herself be overtaken by the shifting views through the windows. Next to her, Garrus kept his eyes looking up, trying to view his destination. Shepard was staring off into blankness. Sam tapped away at a datapad as he stood next to a cart containing a few crates of materials he had grabbed from the clinic before they had all left.

The glow from the planet behind them stifled out the light of the stars. Lovely yachts silently passed along the space between the station and the world. Antennae, weather vanes, and spire-like ventilation systems jutted out from the underside of the Citadel like thorns. Specks of light from elevators just like the one Roahn was in scurried up the sides of dimly lit underbelly. The neon advertisements that were famous for permeating the Citadel's million avenues had been traded for the deep industrial recesses. A continuous wall of alien steel, beautifully curved, one of five.

Having departed the hospital, finally, Garrus had led everyone over to the proper elevator that led to the ship, unable to conceal the slight spring in his step. The understandable anticipation for an upcoming demonstration. After a few minutes had passed from standing still in this infernal box, the edge was beginning to wear off on Roahn. She was rapidly becoming bored. Periodically, she looked down at her prosthesis for reassurance. The metallic three fingers were still at her side, ever so slightly twitching in response to the barest stimuli the electrodes emitted.

In the blank recesses of her mind, a field of static hummed, filling the void where flesh ended and steel began. Something tickled back as she flexed her fingers. Out there, in the black deep, just beyond her reach, Roahn could feel a presence.

She relaxed.

"I'm glad we were stepping out for a _short_ trip," she then heard Sam bemoan behind her.

"Hush," Garrus muttered back.

The elevator than gave a nearly undetectable shudder as the magnetic clamps on its rails began to apply themselves, slowing the lift down. Roahn felt a tiny tug at the extremities of her body as her acceleration slowed to a halt. Even with artificial gravity, the effects of an encompassing zero-g environment was still strong enough to play havoc with Roahn's inner body systems. Her stomach gave a tiny lurch in response to the imperceptible force, forcing a slight acid buildup and a burning sensation to occur in her belly.

"Watch," Shepard leaned forward to murmur next to Roahn's head. "I haven't seen Garrus this giddy in years. Kind of gives you a clue as to how exciting this revelation's going to be."

"It _is_ exciting!" Garrus turned as the elevator door unlocked and began to open behind him. "With _this_ as our vessel, how else could I be feeling?"

The hangar was a pristine example of the sort of spotless atmosphere that the Citadel prided itself on possessing. Skinned with the rounded and ridged sound-dampening metal fixtures, it looked like the inside of a massive creature, the edges of the chamber sharpened like endless rows of teeth. In the center of the deck, a lone bridge expanded out towards the single ship occupying the current space: a deep scout model, fast, and shaped like a diving kingfisher, around two hundred meters long. Four lengthy engines, streamlined and thin, spread out along the wings of the craft, with one cylindrical fuel booster nestled between each for added speed. Two heavy turrets dangled beneath the underside of the craft, missile batteries stacked near the wings, and multiple gun emplacements stuck out from the rounded hull. A singular fin rose up from the rear, dangerous enough to shred atmospheres in its wake.

The profile of the craft would be recognizable to anyone. Despite the digital pattern of alternating grays with a single red stripe circling the wings, Roahn nearly gave a start as she thought she was staring at a ship as nearly as famous as her father. But she knew it was impossible: the ship she was thinking of was on display in a museum on the other side of this station. This could not possibly be the same one…

"It… it's a _Normandy_ class," Roahn breathed as she tilted her head up, the light playing tricks as it kaleidoscope-d a band of colors within her helmet. "Just like you said."

"Third-generation," Garrus said proudly as he placed his hands on his hips. "All for us."

"It's not just a scout ship anymore," Roahn said as she observed the wealth of armaments surrounding the outer hull, the ship seemingly exerting its own gravity as it demanded a reverential audience. "This is an actual gunboat."

"It's a C-APV," Garrus explained.

"C-APV?"

"Council All-Purpose-Vessel. Both a stealth ship and one of the most capable warships for its size. This is the C-APV _Menhir_."

* * *

"Talk about stepping into the past," Shepard said as he made his way through the airlock, his head scanning the long tunnel that connected both the cockpit and the CIC over to the right. Behind him, Roahn took her time as she treaded carefully onto the _Menhir_, taking palpable breaths as she concentrated on absorbing every detail about this glorious ship.

"She's part of a series that was backed by the Council," Garrus said as he led the way past the arrays of empty station banks, rows of four seats flanking the raised walkway where technicians would ordinarily be seated. "Three new Normandy Generation 3s were built in accordance with the 20th anniversary of Victory Day. The _Menhir_ was one of the three, and was also the last one that the Council was holding onto."

"It's nice to know that they didn't fiddle too much with the layout," Shepard noted as he descended the tiny staircase before he entered the CIC in full.

"It shares mostly the same layout as the old SR-1, and a few elements from the SR-2 snuck its way in as well, such as individual decks for both the engine room and the cargo bay. The captain still gets their own floor, too. And we have stairs between the main and immediate lower decks again, so we don't have to wait for the elevator all the time. But all the ostentation Cerberus originally installed into their version didn't make the cut here. No wood-paneled holodeck. No asinine fish tank. And, unfortunately, the showers are back to regulation size. When all's said and done, I guess you could consider this to be the _unofficial_ Normandy SR-3."

A delicate representation of the galaxy within the triangular main data array floated and weaved into the air like grains of sand caught in a miniature gravity well. The atmospheric lights were set to such a dim setting that Roahn could noticeably tell when her vocabulator was emitting its own luminescence, based on the intensity of the shadows in front of her. She had read so many books about the _Normandy, _visited the ship itself at the museum even, and to see it replicated in loving detail was quite the fulfilling experience. To even set foot on a vessel erected in the famous ship's shadow was astonishing enough. Roahn wanted to see more of what this ship had to offer!

This was to be her ship!

"We've got enough armaments to equip a small army on board," Garrus was showing Shepard and Sam around the weapons data banks, at the top-right corner. "Missiles, auto-guns, even a Thanix cannon, for good measure. Silaris armoring is a given, obviously, so that we can take more than a few knocks out there. And with the upgraded engines, we're rated to make the fastest sublight speeds before maximum threshold for FTL travel. We're going to be the quickest ship in the skies, everyone. The _Menhir_ is its own special beast."

Roahn rotated on the spot, taking in the entire CIC before noticing one important fact. "A lot of empty seats here, Garrus. Shouldn't we require additional crewmembers before setting off?"

Garrus waved at Roahn in reassurance. "Way ahead of you. The Council negotiated with the four main races to lend equal portions from their armed forces over to us. They're due to arrive tomorrow morning—we'll get them set up then."

"I thought you wanted _me_ to help you decide on the rest of the crew?" Roahn's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I do, but only for the individuals we want to fill the operations roles," Garrus said. "For filling replaceable ship duties, that's something that even I had no control over. The Council does like to apply its own oversight now and then."

"So what kind of roles are you looking to fill?"

"I was thinking that we could discuss that later today or tomorrow. But I'm still looking to hire a science officer, a lead engine technician, a heavy unit, and a support unit."

Roahn tilted her head as she tried to remember what Garrus had said to her just a few days prior. "And you also… you also said that we had a pilot, right? Who?"

"Ah, right!" Garrus remembered. "One more person you can meet! He's up front, in the pilot's seat where he should be. Go say hello, I bet he's interested to see you again."

_Again?_ Roahn wondered, but it was obvious that Garrus was waiting on her to figure out the surprise for herself. Glancing behind her in apprehension at the turian, Roahn then stared straight ahead towards the front as she ascended the small staircase that led to the cockpit. She knew from memory just how many steps it would take from the CIC to the cockpit itself. She counted them all in her head, finding that the dimensions were accurate. She approached the chair, whose back was turned toward her, tiny pings resounding from the holographic displays as the person seated inside it rapidly punched in several command lines—all the standard preflight checks for a ship of this size.

As Roahn was within a meter of the chair, her anticipation bursting at the seams, she suddenly froze as a long arm reached out to touch a nearby holo-screen. Draped in a flexible but polished armor shell the color of goldenrod, surrounding thick synthetic muscle tissue, the elongated fingers tapped precisely upon the buttons in front of it, relaying its commands in a punctual manner. The hand then halted in mid-air, its line of coding momentarily interrupted as its owner detected that someone had wandered into their presence.

The figure in the chair then rose, stepping fully out from its position to stand before Roahn. She gaped as she beheld the tall individual, finding an alien chill start to creep its way up her spine.

Clawed toes. Curved shins. Three fingers on each hand. Gleaming and smoothed saffron armor. White stripe at the back of the neck. A major/minor photoreceptor construction, searing a painful blue light. Guarded plates at their joints, protecting nonexistent organs. Tiny lights winked on and off within their humanoid form while little rotations of moving parts within their head area continuously adjusted, the creation making little twitches as it observed the shorter quarian that had come into its station.

"Creator," its low voice, ridged by an electronic inflection, uttered, "I was hoping to see you once more."

Roahn's eyes widened as she tracked the graceful lines of the armor-clad being. The tender motions it made towards the quarian beckoned as a welcoming company. Deep as its voice was, it chose its words very gently, dropping any pretense of cold calculation and terror that would have arisen a few decades before. Two discolored patches on its armor, milky in the low light, swirled like scar tissue, the result from two separate plasma bursts having boiled through its chestplate before Roahn had ever been born.

The warm flicker of recognition reclaimed the quarian, turning her temporary fear into a stunned elation.

The pilot was a geth.

But not just any geth. No, she _recognized_ this one.

Roahn walked forward, no longer afraid, and reached out her right hand, placing it lightly upon the reinforced area of the geth's chest. She instinctively knew where the old wounds of the geth were located because she was the one who had fixed them to begin with.

"_Sagan_," she murmured. "You're here."

* * *

Roahn had been introduced to Sagan, or at least the deactivated shell that constituted his body, when she had been nine years old, but it had actually not been the first time that her family had become familiarized to the geth's presence. It turned out that Tali, for many years, had been tinkering away on him for several years in their house, a somewhat secret project that she had kept hidden from their daughter until then. Understandable, given the quarians' past history with the geth.

Tali had actually come into possession of the geth right after her house had been completed on Rannoch. She had spotted his limp body, darkened and gathering dust, at an Admiralty-sanctioned facility designed for weapons testing in the capital city on one of her visits. One of her father's friends who had also been visiting the facility, a fellow admiral by the name of Han'Gerrel, explained how the geth had come to be in their possession, fully knowing the odd story. The geth had been deposited on Rannoch by a human a few months previously and recalled that the human had given the geth the somewhat sentimental moniker of 'Sagan,' before donating it. The geth had been deactivated, most likely from the holes bored into its chest from intense plasma beams, judging by how the armor had melted around the holes. The more she lingered in the presence of this geth, the more her interest was piqued in a solemn sort of regretful longing. Perhaps Tali had seen reflections of the first geth she had ever come into contact with: Legion, and had discovered a new chance to pay back the sacrifice that Legion had made to ensure that both of their people would live harmoniously.

The geth had all been wiped out by the energy wave that the Crucible emitted when Shepard had activated it. That had been a consequence that no one could have predicted would happen. Their empty ships floated aimlessly in space in the months after the war. The battlefields were littered with their lifeless husks, never to rise again. Many of them were collected and disposed of, with many of the alien races not keen to reactivate them again quite so soon, the echoes of the Morning War still lingering in their head. If the geth were going to have a future, they were going to have to wait while the other races laboriously debated about the consequences from such a sudden action.

Even back then, the sight of a deactivated geth platform was a rare sight on Rannoch. The quarians had been quite thorough at rounding them up. Perhaps Tali saw something different in this geth, a chance for her to finally make up for the mistakes she had made for her past transgressions against a people she had barely understood when she had been younger. The decision to take the geth for herself had come to Tali in an instant. To her, if she had the ability to bring at least one geth back, then it would prove to her that Legion's sacrifice would not be completely meaningless. Despite Legion never being technically alive, it was nice to think that his final wish was still being respected by those he had trusted in life. With Gerrel's help, Tali smuggled Sagan's body out of the facility and brought it back to her house.

In the following years Tali would proceed to periodically tinker on Sagan, poring over the geth's hulk in the mornings when she awoke early. She did all of this in an underground bunker—geth research was still technically illegal on Rannoch and Tali did not fancy getting arrested over a project such as this, not to mention she had committed the crime of theft—an ironic turn of events, considering Tali's absolute disdain from years of having to combat the stereotype of being labelled colloquially as part of a race of thieves. The quarians were still too afraid to take the leap and reactivate all the geth again. She had figured all of the quarian leadership for fools on this issue, now that she had seen what their partnership would have brought the both of them. The geth could have changed quarian-kind for the better, but now that they were gone, their potential advancements had been lost to both of their races.

The damage to this particular geth platform had been extensive and Tali could not fix him right away with the parts that she had. Sparingly, she would go into town to get parts once a month, but she would only get a small fraction of the pieces she needed, in order to not arouse suspicion. Progress was slow, but she was never deterred from the deliberate pace of the project. The prospect of success was too exciting for her to be deterred. Sadly, Tali would never get the chance to complete her work, as she had died before the final touches could be applied.

The years went by and the broken geth had silently sat in the workshop, seemingly doomed to its eternal rest.

But it would finally receive a chance.

Roahn, as she grew, had never truly forgotten about the geth since she had found it as a kid down in the bunker. It always occupied a place in her mind, yearning to grab at her attention until the temptation could not be resisted. When she had finally amassed enough confidence, Roahn had gone down to the workshop, back when she was at the fiery age of fourteen, and had searched high and low for her mother's notes. She had made up her mind. Tali's work would be complete.

Following the guidance Tali had left behind, Roahn spent the better part of a year fixing Sagan, connecting every sheared wire, sewing every torn muscle, clamping every shredded pipe, and soldering every damaged plate. She had buffed the scratches out, polished the armor, and even applied a few touches of paint to brighten its visage.

And then, one day, Roahn had pronounced her work complete. With the fateful press of a button on her omni-tool, the geth had immediately awoken, all of its systems functioning perfectly, and it had stood up on its own power. Roahn had clapped and jumped in the air energetically when that happened—her cheers had filled the air of the workshop for the next minute.

Until Roahn would eventually move out to go to a university, Sagan had been a constant presence in her life. There was no record of what Sagan's personality had been like before his imposed shutdown, but she hypothesized that sometime between then and now his core programming had been completely rewired or reset. Sagan did not speak in the manner that Roahn had been expecting, as in referring to himself in the multiple, with "we." Instead, the geth followed traditional dialect guidelines. He referred to himself as "I," exhibited odd tendencies to reflect on his sentience, and even possessed a sense of humor that was so dry that it could only be described as savagely biting. All such qualities that Roahn had thought were not present in the original geth hardware.

Still, the distinction did not concern her. Sagan was as docile as a household pet and did very well as a helper around the house—he frequently assisted Shepard with preparing the house's gardens and acted as a bodyguard to shoo away encroaching wildlife.

Roahn had left Sagan to Shepard when she finally left to pursue her higher education and had figured it would be a long time before she could see the geth again.

Apparently, it had been sooner than the both of them had anticipated.

* * *

"Your surprise was expected," Sagan said, tilting his head in greeting. "A natural response, considering the length of time since we had last conversed directly." He then glanced down, his optics refocusing as he noted Roahn's new arm. "You've upgraded."

"Heh, not exactly," Roahn said wryly as she made a tiny gesture with her arm, finding a vague tickle emit near the back of her brain as the prosthesis detected her touch. "This wasn't done on purpose."

The geth tilted his head quizzically. "Is it not considered advantageous for an organic to adapt, even if it is considered beyond their station? Or do organics still maintain a strong proclivity towards flesh and bone? I cannot relate, as I have neither the experience nor the biases replete in natural lifeforms such as yourself. A fundamental barrier, yet not one that causes me regret."

Sagan's way of formulating his words was indeed uncommon, even for a geth. Roahn believed for a long time that parts of the geth's processing components had been damaged as a result of his fatal shutdown and were in turn causing the odd personality quirks evident in him today. There was a distinct sense of individuality that Sagan was keenly aware of, for his idiosyncrasies all carefully compiled a creative and unique identity. He was not quite at the AI level, in terms of the scale of his intelligence, but he was far beyond the capabilities of what a simple VI could accomplish.

Despite his intimidating assembly, the relatively calm attitude that Sagan portrayed never failed to set anyone in the vicinity at ease. Roahn herself had found the sight of the geth to be a welcome sight, yet another friendly "face" that she would have close by.

Roahn waggled each of her artificial fingers thoughtfully. "Call this a personal decision, for now. And… I wouldn't worry about your inability to see things from my point of view. Between you and me, you'd probably dislike the new insight."

"As you say, Creator."

Roahn now flicked her gaze to the ground momentarily. "So, whose idea was it to have you be Umbra's new pilot? Don't get me wrong, I think it's an inspired choice, but I'm still in the dark of how you were introduced to Garrus, first and foremost."

"That honor would go to your father," Garrus unexpectedly said behind her as he walked forward to appraise Sagan himself. "I had told him about the need for the _Menhir_ to have the finest pilot we could get our hands on, and you know what he said? '_As it happens, Garrus, I might just know the right person._' Of course, I was shocked when that 'person' turned out to be a geth, but hey, it's not like I'm prejudiced against them."

Sam also showed up to form a tiny congregation as he too looked at the geth through thoughtful eyes. Roahn found it strange that the human was absorbing the sight of the geth in almost a longing manner, like he was personally familiar with Sagan or that he held a secret fascination towards the geth race as a whole. Still, it was mystifying to see that no fear radiated from Sam—at least, that which she could tell. He even briefly smirked to himself as a pleasant thought came to mind, a private joke silently shared between him and Sagan.

"You're right about it being inspired," Sam then said. "An awakened geth at the controls of one of the most maneuverable and agile military ships to have ever been built. Sounds like the perfect combination to me."

"With his reflexes and ability to absorb and interpret complex data millions of times faster than us," Garrus said, "Sagan can react to threats at the cockpit and perform precise offensive and defensive maneuvers with pinpoint accuracy and perfect timing. We gave him all the material he needed to learn how to fly a Normandy-class frigate and he passed all of the simulated tests with flying colors. He's an ace."

"No doubt," Roahn mused, already intrigued at the possibility of seeing Sagan perform under duress. "I'm not surprised, honestly. I've always known that Sagan was special."

Sam put a hand to his chin, still studying the geth. "He's more than earned his place here," he murmured just loud enough for Roahn to hear.

"I will prioritize my initiative to act as your reliable pilot," Sagan promised, dipping his head respectfully. "If you find my efforts to be inadequate, you have my authorization to have me permanently dismantled."

It was almost humorous to Roahn as she saw both Garrus and Sam's expressions pale slightly and simultaneously.

"I… don't think that will be necessary," Garrus hastily said.

"Seems unduly harsh," Sam agreed.

"Too violent."

"Overreacting… just a bit."

Sagan swiveled his head back and forth, watching the two try to mumble away the awkwardness before he waggled his shoulders, standing a centimeter straighter. "It appears that my attempt at raillery has proven to be unsuccessful. I will make a note to improve my abilities for the next time."

The very notion that Sagan had the propensity for humor, and not a very good one, was slightly disconcerting to the gaggle that had collected around the geth. Garrus fidgeted, Sam coughed, but Roahn was trying to hide a smile (despite the fact that her clouded expression was mostly invisible already) as she knew that Sagan's whole act was exactly that. An act. Completely harmless.

"Yeah, well…" Sam coughed as he made a poor attempt to disengage himself from the conversation, "don't quit your day job, old sport."

Roahn had nothing else to add as she made her way back to the CIC, leaving Sagan alone at his station. Garrus followed her at a distance, carefully eying the reactions from his subordinate. A tiny cloud of dust was made visible from the sequence of dim beams from overhead. Roahn walked by the bare walls, not even yet adorned with the war colors of the _Menhir_. This ship was a blank slate, able to be whatever she wanted it to be.

A chariot.

A hurricane.

Whatever metaphorical analogies passed through her mind were all put to rest as she felt a hand along the darkened railing of the central terminal. The galaxy map beckoned, a glimmering belt of simulated fire and rock all circling a maelstrom of dark energy. She ascended the slight ramp, placing an arm on each side of the handholds that flanked her. Overlooking the galaxy as she knew it, she felt like a god, able to reach out a finger and merely crush the evils that permeated her existence.

Roahn leaned forward, bathing herself in the light of the map. She felt aglow from standing on what all ship captains proclaimed to be hallowed ground. The most important choices a leader made for their crew were held upon spots like this. Her metal fingers tensed upon the rail, a slight hissing sound emitting from a joint as she sucked in a long intake of breath.

Standing here, within this ship, she might as well be invincible.

Watching her, Garrus provided a mirthful look as he caught Roahn's eye through the brilliantly lit conflagration. He crossed his arms and tilted his head expectantly.

"Ready to go to work, commander?"

* * *

**A/N: A bunch of old and new faces have now shown up. Don't think that this was going to be all OC characters here! While we're not quite getting the entire band back together just yet, Umbra will feel more like a blast from the past as time goes on. Well... maybe just a bit. There's still a fair bit of the cast that has yet to be introduced.**

**Anyway, let me know what you guys thought of this chapter! I'm happy that everyone seems to be responding to the story quite well so far! Make no mistake, I'm quite intent on seeing this story through all the way to the end.**

**Playlist:**

**Phoria's Speech/Enter James Vega**  
**"Imaginary Friends (ov)"**  
**deadmau5 & Gregory Reveret**  
**where's the drop? (2018 album)**

**Enter Sam McLeod**  
**"From Nothing Comes a King"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**New Arm (Roahn Theme 1.1)**  
**"Open a Breach"**  
**Ben Prunty**  
**Into the Breach (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Menhir**  
**"Ship of Hope"**  
**Naoki Sato**  
**Space Battleship Yamamoto (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Enter Sagan/Galaxy Map**  
**"Aunt May and the Spider-Shed"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**Spider-Man: Enter the Spider-Verse (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	6. Chapter 6: Inherent Disfunction

"_If you find that you have an inventory surplus, you can go to the nearest storefront and sell your items for credits. Or, if a shop is not immediately available, you can break down your item into omni-gel. And stop asking what omni-gel looks like. We have no idea, either. All you need to know is that it's called 'gel' and can be applied to locked doors to crack them instantly without having to endure any of the flow-breaking minigames._

_You can tell we were running out of ideas near the end."_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

_C-APV Menhir—Captain's Deck  
__The Citadel_

The elevator dropped Roahn off at the small checkpoint that separated the bay from Garrus' room after she had only been inside for a few seconds after hitting the button for the top floor: the captain's cabin. Small improvements already, she noted with a smile. The elevators on the old _Normandy_ models had been notorious for being aggravatingly slow. Good to see that this design flaw had been dealt with.

Garrus was already standing at the door entrance, beckoning for her to enter. The room beyond was smaller than she expected and, as Roahn immediately perceived, lacking in accoutrements that had made the SR-2 a particularly special ship.

"I miss the fish tank," Roahn said as she descended the small staircase. She touched her prosthetic fingers and gently scraped along the leftmost wall, a blank tapestry of ship armoring and military-style rivulets. Had the _Menhir_ been built to the exact specifications of her father's old ship, the _Normandy_ SR-2, there would have been a gigantic fish tank that took up nearly the entirety of the wall right here. Saltwater for the most exotic fish, lit by these gorgeous blue lamps that glowed a vibrant hue with the ambient lighting off.

With the installation not being present here, Roahn could only stare longingly at the stark side of the cabin.

"I'll live without it," Garrus replied as he followed Roahn down. "It was made sure that this ship had everything we would ever require without going into excess. You can tell just by a few glances, actually. So familiar yet so different. But there are some drawbacks. Whoever built this thing decided to get a little-overzealous with making this room up to the usual military standard. No trophy case. No skylight. But here's the worst part: they gave me only a regulation size bed!"

Garrus gestured frantically over to the sad little cot on the far side of the room, only wide enough to hold one person. Regulation size, all right. A flat pillow and an itchy blanket were the only items adorning the bed at the moment and Garrus looked like he wanted to upend the entire thing for how pathetic it looked.

Roahn could understand the turian's frustration. Whereas the _Normandy SR-2's_ layout had treated its captain like a king, the _Menhir_ was outfitted with the bare essentials, intent on having the captain have their quarters only just a tad above standard issue. The room was divided into two levels (but the difference in height was only about a couple feet) with the entrance level containing an office of sorts and the private bathroom. The lower level was separated by a shallow staircase, where the bed was located along with the captain's personal items and a long booth complete with a table big enough for several people to congregate at once. It was at this table that Garrus now took a seat. Roahn took the booth seat across from him.

The quarian made a noise of surprise as she practically sunk into the soft padding. Thick cushioning made for a comfortable position. If she wanted, she could kick her feet up here and go to sleep in just a few minutes. She settled in, trying to find the right balance on where to sit.

"I probably shouldn't complain," Garrus shrugged as he fiddled with his fingers. "The lack of _chattel_ could be seen as an opportunity. The Council's budget probably didn't extend to interior decorating, I suppose. Not too surprising, altogether."

"I don't think the taxpayers would have been too pleased either if they found out that their credits went towards installing an aquarium on board a warship," Roahn pointed out, trying not to feel small, seated at the massive booth. "_Or_ if they gave its officers king-size beds."

Garrus gave another look towards the miserable construction behind him. "I might end up buying a better bed for myself sooner or later. What they gave me doesn't look rated for turians, anyway. We're not as… _malleable_ as most of the other races. If the Council doesn't want to put this on their tab, that's fine. But this place is going to need more than a couple of changes to get it into passable condition for me."

"What, you're thinking that you could set a gun rack over on the wall?" Roahn suggested.

"_Now_ we're onto something," Garrus chuckled. "Maybe set up a full bar, since we don't have an activity room anymore."

Roahn laughed. "A bit too tempting, perhaps. I've heard the stories. I know that bad things happen when you and my dad get loaded."

Garrus guffawed. He had kept up a friendly competition with Shepard over the years, trying to figure out which of them was the better shot, a little showing of what Garrus liked to dub 'manhood.' The pursuit of the heralded title amongst the two had suffered severe casualties in the amount of alcohol bottles consumed between them—the empty bottles they finished off were used as victims for the bullets of their guns. Every game would conclude with the results being somewhat tenuous… and the participants being very drunk.

The turian now changed the subject. "We didn't meet here to discuss all the ways I should rearrange my room. Although, I might have to consult someone for help when it comes down to it. I've been told repeatedly that I have no sense of style."

"No style? You?" Roahn mockingly gasped. "And all this time I thought you wore that eyepiece as a fashion statement!"

"Har, har," Garrus grumbled as he gave his head a shake. The eyepiece that he always wore right eye was a purely functional attachment to his wardrobe that added no purposes outside of an actual combat mission. Some would call it paranoia. To Garrus, it was reflex. A holdover from his soldiering days. He rarely took it off except under special circumstances.

Some habits were hard to undo.

"But in all seriousness, Garrus, look at me. I've been wearing the same enviro-suit for years. I'm not exactly someone you'd call 'fashion-conscious' either. You saw how we decorated our ships back when you were on the Migrant Fleet. I don't really think quarians have any fashion sense in their genes. Besides, if you look in my cabin, you'll see that there aren't many places there for me to 'express' myself."

Despite her words, Roahn was not at all ungrateful. Truth be told, she had been expecting to simply have a cot assigned to her in the collective crew quarters, but she had been surprised upon first boarding the Menhir when Garrus showed her that the XO got their own room on the third level, near the mess hall. It was nothing to sneeze at: a tiny box no bigger than a closet, but at least she had privacy and her own little bathroom—albeit a cramped one—that she could use. It even had a decontamination suite installed, so that she could remove her visor if she so wished.

"Then I guess I'm out of luck on that front." Garrus then cleared his throat before he realized he forgot something and walked up the small flight of stairs over to his little office. Procuring a tiny disc—a holo-projector—from the desk, he treaded back down and set the device on the table between the two of them. "Still, there are more important things to concern ourselves with."

"Getting a crew together."

"That's right. Getting a crew together. Once again, putting a team together of the best the galaxy has to offer. Thankfully, no prospect of a suicide mission is looming on the horizon for us."

"Oh. Lucky," Roahn drawled.

Garrus gave a light snort at the comment before continuing. "Like I said before, we've got some of the main leadership team already recruited, but it's the last four people that I want… I want to try something a bit different. I want to bring your opinion into the equation, Roahn, to see if there's anything to our potential recruits that I could miss."

It was almost unreal to have the knowledge that Garrus Vakarian, her long-time idol and now her immediate superior, wanted to incorporate her stances for important matters such as this. The thought that she was seen as incredibly valuable, an asset to Garrus, was enough to make her head swim. She would make herself indispensable to him, no doubt, but at the same time she wondered if her best efforts were going to be enough for him.

Or her father, for that matter?

Her new arm could very well suffice as proof to the contrary, a sign of when her best had ended up failing her in spectacular fashion. Dim prickle of sensation fizzled upon the ends of metal fingers. Her brain was starting to imagine sensations again.

She had to be better. The Roahn of yesterday could not survive if the totality of her being had to move on.

_I suppose there's only one way to find out if I'm ready or not, _Roahn thought with an imperceptible grimace. She felt both hands clench in her lap, hidden underneath the table. Now was one of the rare times when she was thankful for wearing a helmet all the time. One such perk of being a quarian. She would show no weakness in front of this man. As far as he was concerned, she would be the sort of commander that Garrus always deserved.

"So," Roahn leaned forward, head angled so that she was certain to hear Garrus' words, "how is this going to work? Do we just select from a list of dossiers and then go all over the galaxy to find them? Seemed to work the last time."

Garrus shook his head as he typed a few commands into the holo-projector. "Nah, too much effort. The days of running around the galaxy, looking for people, are over and done with. The hard part's been dealt with, actually. I've already taken the liberty of compiling a list of people we can draw from immediately. Basically, we send out the call and they come to us. Plus, the Council has given us the liberty of pulling anyone we want from our allied military forces, if we were so inclined. The Alliance, Republic, Union, Hierarchy, and the Defenders have all submitted candidates for this job—their extranet portals have been connected to this system to perform the selections. Although, I think the Council would prefer for us to stick with Defender stock. They don't want to run to the other governments and sheepishly request to borrow some of their units for an assignment like this."

"Oh, okay," Roahn said, appearing to understand. She straightened herself upon the seat and made a gesture towards the holo-projector. "Where do we start? Who… uh… who do you have in mind?"

With a flick of his finger, Garrus tapped at one final switch upon the device and a bright blue beam shot a few feet straight into the air. Razor-thin, atomically small. The pinprick then abruptly widened into a flat screen, whereupon it emitted a haptic display filled with rows and columns of information, pictures, files, all pertaining towards the comparison of individuals. All at the tips of their fingers.

"I was thinking that we'll decide on the science officer first," Garrus said as he waved a hand, causing the grid to scroll down from the list of names rapidly, all scything by in a bright blur before Roahn's eyes. "Now, we'll have to choose someone experienced with dataset analysis. Big data groups, that sort of thing. I've got a few names on here that I think would be a start for us to check out. We just need to make sure that they would match with the team both in terms of their expertise and their behave—"

"Liara T'Soni," Roahn interrupted as she raised a finger, sitting up subtly straighter.

Garrus paused mid-sentence, tongue in flux from having been cut off. "You… huh?"

"Liara T'Soni. I want her for the team."

Chuckling, Garrus leaned back in his seat as he folded his hands in front of him. "You're trying to take advantage of an opportunity here, aren't you, Roahn? She wasn't even on my original list to begin with."

But Roahn was not to be deterred so easily. Meeting the century-old asari when she had been a kid had been one of her most transformative experiences in her life. Liara T'Soni was a dear friend to her family, sharp as a whip, and had the calmest exterior about her. Not to mention one of the original members of the _Normandy_ crew, a legend in Roahn's eyes. She had heard stories from her father about Liara once going down a dark path of murder and revenge against those who wished her harm, but Roahn could scarcely believe it. Liara just seemed so naturally welcoming and eager to teach those who wished to learn—seeing her as a hardened mercenary (almost) was certainly stretching believability for her, despite the fact that none of her father's tales had been proved to be lies.

Roahn just shrugged. "It's like you said. You want people who fit the role in terms of experience and behavioral compatibility."

"So you'd suggest that I just rehire the remainder of the old crew to fill the gaps? Roahn, Roahn. You sure you're not trying to get the team back together to fulfill some bucket list of yours?"

Now Roahn smiled, allowing her eyes to reflect her self-satisfied words. "Are you saying that she's not qualified for the job?"

"Not remotely," Garrus pointed a finger, but his expression was one of brief amusement. "She's probably the one I'd trust the most for the position."

"Then why not invite her? Why was she not on your initial list?"

"Out of politeness. She's been keeping busy as a professor on Prothean archeology for a prestigious Thessian university. It's a big deal for her—the university usually only lets matriarchs teach the students. Considering her achievements, the faculty made an exception for her. She's been on the staff for… four years now, if I recall correctly."

"Would it hurt to ask her, though?" Roahn twiddled her fingers, fighting to make her prosthetic ones move as fast as her real fingers. They slipped and bumped into the other inelegantly. Damn input lag. She was still getting used to the new limb.

Garrus said, "Probably not. It might take some convincing, but I won't push her too hard if she has any reservations."

"Fair enough," Roahn conceded as she momentarily lifted her hands from the table. She then took a swipe at the screen, resetting it back to the original master file repository. "That's one role down. Who's next?"

"Uh, let's see," Garrus murmured as he swiped to the next item on the list, whirring by nodes and blocks of text. "The heavy unit. A combat expert, so to speak. We're going to need one of those if we want to carry out intensive missions on the ground."

Roahn nodded in agreement as she scratched at her enviro-suit at the neck, trying to hit an itch that had just cropped up. "Not many of those I can think of at the top of my head."

"That's why we have the lists."

"Well, we know for sure that a krogan would be able to fit the bill. They're particularly gifted at fighting."

"Possibly," Garrus said idly. "Though I only know of one who'd—"

The turian cut himself off as he furrowed his facial plates into something resembling the emotional equivalent of a double-take. "Wait…"

"Urdnot Grunt," Roahn said, unable to hide the pride from her voice.

One of the most fearsome krogan she had ever known, Grunt was also another veteran of the _Normandy_ crew. Young in age (per krogan standards) but uncannily adept at warfare, Grunt could be counted on as a purely destructive force on the battlefield. He had a preference for high-explosive weaponry, loved to charge his foes and crush them to death with his massive size, and because he was a krogan, he could shrug off a lot of damage that would kill an ordinary quarian otherwise. Despite his intimidating size and reputation, Grunt was fastidiously loyal to his comrades, especially to her father. He had been the one who had helped him complete his krogan rite of passage into adulthood after all—Grunt had remained staunchly devoted to him ever since, even going so far as to call Shepard 'Battlemaster.'

All the ingredients were there for one valuable asset, in Roahn's eyes.

"Urdnot Grunt," she said again. "There's no one better."

Garrus threw up his hands, though it was without discontent as he looked straight at Roahn. "First Liara, now Grunt. We're making quite the ensemble out of this, aren't we?"

"I'm just throwing out suggestions like _you_ wanted," Roahn defended. "You have every right to override me, what with you being captain and all."

"Yeah, yeah, I guess," Garrus said as he rubbed at a spot upon his forehead. "Still…"

"Come on, what does Grunt have going on in his life that's more important?"

"Knowing him, probably nothing," Garrus said as he made a note on a datapad in front of him. "He'll probably catch the next flight off Tuchanka the second he gets off the call with me."

"So that's a lock?" Roahn leaned forward, hopeful.

Garrus gave a matter-of-fact nod. "How could anyone top Grunt?"

Decisive, that. This was going faster than Roahn had figured.

The turian then moved to switch over to the next dossier that would be decided. However, Roahn momentarily faded out, as if abruptly struck with the vaguest of ideas, existing within the fuzzy corners that she had to strain to reach. And only when she had finally managed to make a grip, she could pull it out into focus.

Her metallic fingers made a tapping noise upon the table as she considered something. Garrus heard the noise and looked up. "Something else to add?"

"It's just odd," Roahn said. "Odd that you have these lists but that Liara and Grunt were not at the forefront of your mind when you compiled them. I don't know. If it were me, I wouldn't have considered anyone else."

Garrus now appeared a little sheepish, like he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He slid the datapad to the side and leaned forward to give Roahn his utmost attention. "Believe it or not, I actually _did_ think of them first. They were… the obvious choices, I will definitely admit. Perfect for these roles."

"I'm sensing a 'but' somewhere in there."

"_But_," Garrus said, "I held out because I wanted to see if you had any better ideas. I didn't want to make every single decision towards our crew right at the outset. I meant what I said when I told you that you were going to have a genuine input in this. Liara and Grunt, I couldn't imagine better people for the job at hand. They're the best at what they do and I would love for the chance to get to work with them again."

"And maybe they feel the same way," Roahn said, bolstered by the small impact that she had already demonstrated. "After they have traveled into hell alongside you and my father, I can't imagine that recruiting either of them will take any effort. I just can't see it."

This received a nod from Garrus. Even despite Roahn's lower rank, it was odd seeing such veneration in the turian's stare. After having been ignored for so long when she was in the Defenders, she was not used to this sort of treatment.

"I'll get in touch with them right away after this meeting," he promised her. "But we still have two more slots to fill."

"An engineer and another solider."

"Know any of those off the top of your head?" Garrus replied teasingly, his mandibles flapping to some unconscious emotion.

Roahn brushed off the jab. "Looks like your lists will come in handy after all."

"After all the time I spent on them, I certainly hope so," Garrus said as his face was lit aglow from the holo-projector once again. He adjusted the settings to present each potential candidate one at a time, in slideshow format. The list of names and their faces gradually passed through the air, turning in place to get a glimpse at all angles.

Leaning forward so that she could read the translated text underneath each picture—akin to a painfully trimmed down resume—Roahn glanced up and down at the parade of faces that scrolled by her view.

"I'm at a loss at what to look for," she admitted.

"We're focusing on finding engineers now, so we should try to see if we can find someone who has experience working with the same kind of engines we have on the Menhir. The problem is, our engine tech is so advanced that the only people who have seen it were people on the _Normandy_ or at any fancy technology institute."

Garrus did not need to specify that Tali would have acclimated herself to the role in mere minutes, had she still been around. The two of them did not dare to traverse down that darkened path though, keenly aware of the trials that would await them.

"Then let's filter that down," Roahn indicated energetically. "Try and see if you can search for anyone who went to any of these universities and if their concentration was specifically in advanced propulsion engineering."

"Give me a moment," Garrus said as he slowly typed in the list of commands he wished for the system to relay. It took him a bit longer than he would have liked to figure out the correct syntax—computer language had never been one of his specialties. But in the end, he eventually did get a list of three individuals up on the screen: a human, a salarian, and a turian like himself.

"Hmm," Garrus eyed the thumbnails of the files he had just uncovered, but did not open them just yet. "Only three to choose from. Crap."

"What's wrong with that?" Roahn asked, honestly curious. "We've got candidates who fit the bill right there!"

"Yes, but I was expecting a dozen at least. Pretty much confirms that the Council's information was filtered before it was sent over to me. I didn't think that all of the Council's governments were too keen on letting us pick from their finest stock and this is the proof. They're conceding by giving us their pick from the _bottom_ quartile."

"Can we at least _look_ at them before we decide to go searching elsewhere?"

"I'd say why bother because it's very likely that we're both going to be disappointed, but since you insist…"

Raising a hand, Garrus tapped on the first icon, the male human's, blowing up the image to view it in fullscreen. The man in particular had a sallow expression, droopy eyes, and an overall posture that was a bit too relaxed. The candidate's list of achievements ran rather small down at the bottom. The more Roahn read, the more her hopes plummeted.

Garrus too looked particularly uninterested. "Military record: unsatisfactory. History with hard drugs. Frequently at odds with superiors. Oh, this guy's a lock, for certain. And… _aha!_ Here it is. He attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology… for one semester. He never even graduated and he certainly never got a look at any advanced engineering concepts in that time, I'm willing to bet."

"Okay, so we can scratch him off the list," Roahn abided.

Garrus did so with a flourish that indicated he was more than happy to do so. But before he was to move onto the salarian's dossier, Roahn piped up to speak. "Can you add another filter to the search?"

"Why? We've only got two names left."

"I know, but just in the interest of having a complete accounting, can you run a filter for these individuals to see if they _have_ graduated from a university?"

Shrugging, not seeing any reason to argue against such an idea, Garrus quickly keyed in the command Roahn had indicated. He then hit the enter key once the filter had been added in and the salarian's name swiftly winked away from the main view, leaving the turian as the only one left. Roahn smirked as she beheld Garrus make a tiny motion of surprise that they managed to trim the field down to just one candidate. Perhaps this other turian would be the magic recruit they needed? One could only hope.

And Roahn was already of the dangers that came with the capability to hope.

But when Garrus clicked on the icon, pulling up the dossier for the turian, his face fell almost immediately. Roahn spotted Garrus' reaction before she even read what was on the screen. "Garrus? What's wrong?"

"It's…" Garrus whispered as he was unable to tear his eyes away from the other turian hovering in front of his face. "It's his name."

Roahn followed Garrus' stare and found the name of the candidate printed underneath his picture in bright block letters. "Korridon," she read aloud. "Korridon… Sidonis?"

"_Sidonis_," Garrus hissed as he pushed away from the table, almost as if he was trying to escape the faux representation of the turian on the screen.

Looking back and forth between Garrus and Korridon's visage, Roahn was struggling to make everything click until it finally hit her. "Oh… you mean… you're talking about the man who betrayed you back on Omega all that time ago. The same one who got your entire team killed."

"Yes, _that_ man," Garrus spat. "But his first name was not Korridon. It was Lantar."

"But… you let him live. You had him at gunpoint and you let him walk away. You forgave him."

"Letting someone walk away and forgiving them are not the same thing," Garrus growled as he stood up from his chair to slowly circle the table, keeping his eyes locked onto Korridon's face. He tilted his head, trying to see the resemblance. "Lantar Sidonis was killed on Earth during the war. I knew the man well enough that he never even had a son. This man—Korridon— is… hmm… too young to be immediate family. A nephew, perhaps?"

As if he wanted to confirm his own worst fears right away, Garrus shot back over to the datapad and did some quick searching upon it, filtering past endless rows of useless family histories and ancient ancestral data until he finally came upon the folder he wanted. Luckily for him, all turians had their family trees uploaded to a central database back on Palaven. Finding out familial relations was a relatively simple effort, compared to most of the other races.

"Yes, I have it right here," he stabbed a finger onto the screen. "Lantar Sidonis' thread ends with him. But he had a brother—Xavern—who had a son: Korridon. He's Lantar's nephew, like I thought."

"So he's barely related to the man," Roahn said. "Why do Lantar's sins have to be reflected on Korridon?"

"You're making an awful lot of assumptions for someone we haven't even vetted in full yet," Garrus sighed as he set the datapad back down. "And, I'm sorry, but you don't know just how personally turians take betrayals. We're expected to be fastidious in our duty to the common good. Loyalty to our team, always. Lantar Sidonis broke that bond when he gave my enemies information to ambush my team—_Sidonis'_ team. The shame of what he did lingers on in the remaining family. They take it upon themselves to bear his burden."

Peering harder at Korridon's digitized face, Roahn was trying to imagine if such mischief had the possibility to be inherent in a family's genes. The turian on the screen did not look like someone who could not be trusted, but Roahn was not so naïve—she knew that looks could be deceiving. But, there was a distant look in Korridon's eyes, something that she could not discern on the other side of this projected view. The turian was young, still retaining a youthful appearance, and did not have any scars lining his face like Garrus. Even in just a picture, Roahn thought Korridon seemed… shy?

Roahn clasped her hands together in a conciliatory fashion. "Then, if they're already paying for his sins, do they really need you to add to their overall guilt?"

"I… I don't…"

The quarian then reached out and easily plucked the holo-display as her prosthesis clenched the haptic corner between two fingers. She grinned at the display of dexterity.

_I'm definitely getting better!_

Roahn then oriented the screen so that she could look through Korridon's dossier to herself, her eyes rapidly scanning each line back and forth as she sought to absorb all of the information as fast as possible.

"He's got a degree from a good school on Palaven," she said in a sing-song voice.

"I still don't see why—"

"_And_ he's got front-line experience."

"_Everyone's_ got front-line—"

"Not to mention," Roahn said proudly as she indicated a particular spot on the turian's resume, "his work was in advanced propulsion systems."

Garrus blanched for a second before he took the haptic interface from Roahn's hand. His eyes moved from line to line until they firmly fixated upon a specific point on the screen. He rotated it so that Roahn could have a look. "Yeah, that's all well and good, but you see here? This guy's got a black mark on his file from the Hierarchy. Turian Military judicial punishment. Says right here: 'Cited for insubordination.' Not exactly an example of a sterling record, there."

Roahn similarly wilted, but it was her appearance that slumped the most. This was certainly a blow to her confidence. She had been championing this man and she had apparently missed, right there at the bottom, one of the few things that would have ordinarily caused her to not give a second glance toward the candidate. She was angered that she had skimmed over something so obvious.

Yet, for some reason, she was not ready to give up on him.

"What were the details of the charge?"

Garrus eyed her, curious as to why Roahn was pressing this, but eventually went along with her request as he tried to tap the link leading to Korridon's combat record. But every time he touched the display, the link flashed red at him.

He shook his head. "Not letting me into the records. It won't say what the insubordination incident was about."

"You don't think that's a bit strange?"

"Well…" Garrus took a moment to think. "The Hierarchy has been known to lock certain files when it has decided if any of their contents casts them in an unfavorable light. This usually happens when there are cases of extrajudicial punishment that occur during operations. But there could be other circumstances that I'm not yet immediately aware of. But I have to admit, it's a bit odd that the Hierarchy would lock a file for a simple insubordination charge. Heavy discipline was involved, but he wasn't discharged. Very, very strange."

"Enough to give him a chance?"

Garrus squinted his eyes as he lightly set his talons upon the table in a deliberate fashion. "We'll be taking a hell of a risk."

"Then I will take all responsibility if he doesn't pan out the way you hoped," Roahn offered immediately. "Look, I know that this could be uncomfortable for you, but wouldn't you rather work with someone who was the most qualified for the job that you disliked versus someone who was incompetent but one whose company you enjoyed?"

The turian obviously was not one hundred percent on board with this, but even he had the sense to recognize logic when it was being bashed over his head. Whatever negative connotations he had with Korridon's extended family, he determined that he could at least make a genuine effort to keep them subdued for the time being. _Within reason_, he had to tell himself. Although he knew that he was probably fooling himself if this little zone of awkwardness would not be referenced again in the future.

Wishful thinking, that.

"All right," Garrus said after taking a slow breath. "I'll extend him an offer. But—," he added as he saw Roahn imperceptibly rise at his concession, "—if he's not up to snuff or if he becomes a liability in any fashion, he's out. Understand?"

"Understood, boss," Roahn nodded, leaning into her achievement without any prideful gasconade. If Korridon Sidonis was not the person she had hoped, then she would spill no tears when he would depart. Such was the way of life. The rise through the ranks was utterly dependent on performance and merit—an unevenly balanced scale. Persistent throughout both military and civilian life, Roahn was fully prepared at any point if she was going to have to cut some people if they were not meeting Garrus' expectations.

Garrus cracked his façade, which had grown cold, into a mirthful look. "It feels like yesterday since I was the one calling your dad, 'Boss,' you know."

"I _do_ know. Which was _why_ I called you 'Boss.'"

"Hmph," Garrus murmured, but glanced at the quarian with a glimmer of appreciation. At this moment, he was feeling pretty confident in his choice for an XO: sharp, a little smarmy, but not a subservient yes-man. And, to top it all off, she was the daughter of his two best friends. Cut from the very same cloth, there could not have been a more perfect combination.

"Anyone else we have to look at?" Roahn asked.

"Just the support unit," Garrus said as he slid the datapad over to Roahn. "Slim pickings, though."

Roahn picked up the pad and flicked through the list of names that had been provided to Garrus to choose from. Right away, she could tell that the turian had not been using hyperbole when he had been referring to the meager offerings. They were all terrible. None of the men or women on this list had any of the kinds of skills relevant or useful to a supporting combat position. The militaries had thrown Garrus crew chiefs, kitchen cooks, recruits with serious attitude problems or criminal records, and the Alliance had even offered Garrus a chaplain, perhaps as a joke.

She nearly chucked the datapad against the wall before deciding to set it down onto the table. These were all the choices that the Council was really going to give them? They might as well have told Garrus to go fuck himself, considering the useless selection at her disposal. None of these people had any of the combat experience that would be at all required for the sort of work they were going up against. They would almost certainly be in over their head at the first sign of trouble. Now Korridon seemed like a surefire bet, considering the alternatives for this position.

"The Defenders provided a more reasonable selection," Garrus leaned over and touched an icon on the datapad, shifting the view so that Roahn could see what he was referring to. "But not by much. A lot of green recruits on the list that they're more than happy to part with. Apparently they were inspired enough to collect a list of people to _volunteer_ for this outfit, believe it or not. Made it seem like I was hosting an open casting call, or something."

"One would think that the opportunity to volunteer would yield better results," Roahn groused.

"Not by much, actually. Mostly young fools trying to prove something when what we're looking for are experienced professionals."

"Guess that means we're back to the drawing board, huh?"

"Not quite," Garrus pointed out. "There was _one_ volunteer who seemed to meet the qualifications."

"Only one?"

"Only one," the turian nodded.

"I'll bite. Who's the lucky victim remaining on our list?"

Garrus cleared his throat as he now booted up the dossier in question up on his omni-tool so that he could read it. "_She_ is apparently a well-traveled combat veteran. Fought in several skirmishes against PMCs, got high marks in basic training, well-liked within her Defender platoon."

"Sounds promising," Roahn went along, succumbing to the slowly building hype. "Can I dare to hope that this is a fellow quarian?"

"Sorry, but no. Human. Oh, and it also says here that she consistently got merits for crack shooting during combat training."

"Maybe the two of you will have to compare notes," Roahn teased. If Garrus could not resist boasting about his abilities to her father, who knows what would happen when someone equally as competitive now came into close range of the turian? "What's her name?"

"Hold on, I need to make sure I get this right." Garrus screwed up his expression, giving his mandibles a contorted flap as he readied his tongue to sound the unfamiliar human language. "Kind of a… flowing name. Skye. Skye Lorne."

Garrus had been concentrating so hard on reading the name on his omni-tool that he failed to notice the incredibly visible reaction that Roahn just gave—a violent jerk—upon hearing the words that he had uttered. If he had caught it, it certainly would have perplexed him enough to pause for a moment, but since his mind had been elsewhere in that vulnerable period, he completely missed the time to react to it.

"_Huh_," was all Roahn said, just the barest tremor infiltrating the lower registers of her voice.

"Yeah, I know," Garrus replied, completely missing the hidden meaning from Roahn's singular answer, "humans can have the strangest names. Actually, I once read that it's actually not an uncommon occurrence for humans to name their children after characters in popular vids? I just think that's bizarre. I couldn't imagine naming a kid—"

Roahn finally stepped out from the booth, causing Garrus to clamp his jaw shut, ending his little aside early. "So… this Skye," she said laboriously, "you're pretty positive that you want to pick _her_ from the team?"

"Hey, you saw what we had been offered," Garrus shrugged. "Frankly, she's a good deal for the team. Good service record and has a varied skillset. I think she'll be just fine, when all's said and done. Why? Did you see something you didn't like in her file?"

"No, no," Roahn hastily shook her head. "I… I think she's a good fit. She has… experience. Drive. I think it'll work."

Garrus gave a superficial pause as even he was able to detect the underlying meanings conveyed within his XO's words. However, Roahn had gotten quite adept at masking her normally bright body language when she concentrated hard enough, and as such, Garrus was not able to get a firm read on what the woman was feeling at this current point. His suspicion dying all too quickly, he still gestured to the datapad one last time.

"You sure? There wasn't much discussion for this choice. We can always look through more names, if you want."

"No, I… I've taken up enough of your time as it is," Roahn assured, already starting to iron out the tremble that had latched onto her throat for a little bit. "If you think Skye Lorne is good for this team, I'll support your decision all the way."

"It's your decision too," Garrus pointed out. "And I will take any recommendation from you and give it definite weight. I want you to know that."

Roahn had to dip her head in appreciation. Garrus might need to tell her of her importance a few more times to let it fully sink in, she considered. Her opinion now had weight, her value increased. Her standing had so abruptly risen that she still had not completely comprehended this newfound power that had been bestowed unto her. She was here now, shaping the crew of the future, lending her voice to decisions of paramount.

She walked to the center of the room before turning around, straightening to show her adherence to military doctrine. "I'm grateful you think so highly of me, Garrus. I'll firmly stand by the fact that this crew we've picked out is going to do you proud."

"It'll be interesting to see them in action," Garrus said.

Roahn gave an affirming expression, not a smile, but a genial face of relief.

"Permission to be dismissed, sir?"

Garrus found himself fleetingly searching for a reason to have Roahn to stay a while longer, her previous tics continuing to resonate and root him squarely in the past. His mind, however, was occupied on so many things that he could not pluck the shredded thoughts he yearned for inside the fog of his consciousness. Perhaps another time, then.

"See you downstairs," he said.

* * *

After departing from Garrus' cabin, Roahn called the elevator forth to take her down towards the operating levels of the _Menhir_, but she did not press a button for any of the levels once she stepped inside. Instead, she pressed herself into a corner of the shiny metallic box, the holo-pad for the controls winking impatiently at her on the opposite side of the lift, trying desperately to gain her attention.

She pressed her arms to her chest, trying to suppress a shiver. But it was not a shiver of terror. It was one of intense wariness. Uncertainty. Roahn scrunched her brow, almost like a highly focalized pinprick of pressure had wormed its way under her forehead, just above the bridge of her nose, and was squirming to break back out. Her lips moved of their own accord, already in the process of vocalizing imaginary conversations to an audience already straining the limits of reality even in her own head.

Skye Lorne. Demons of the past were coming back home. The galaxy certainly had a sense of humor. It had been years since she had heard that name. When Garrus had first mentioned it, she knew it had to be the very same person. Not many names like it out there, even considering the breadth of influence humans exerted.

She almost wished she had not even listened when Garrus had brought up the human's name. If only she could have moved past it and selected someone else. That was the power that damned name had over her.

And now Skye was to be part of the team. Her team.

_What were you thinking?!_ she almost cried out, but remembered where she was in the nick of time. It then started to hit home that she had fully been consumed by the problem at hand. This added a new wrinkle for Roahn to consider, as she now idly rubbed at her prosthesis as a dull ache began to claw its way forward. She could still stop this, cease this maddening lurch in her stomach that had churned ever since she had heard Skye's name resound in that cabin. All she had to do was walk back in there, tell Garrus her misgivings, and they would proceed to pick another for the position. Skye would be discarded, never to be called so close.

Yet she stayed put. Statuesque. Her limbs completely frozen in place.

Problems upon problems upon problems. Something was anchoring her here, in the elevator, keeping her still and impeding her from moving forward. An empathetic thread long forgotten perhaps, begging for her to put old ghosts to rest. Maybe this was all restitution for prior ill-advised indulgences. A sort of karmic loop that had finally rested its sights upon her as she struggled to figure out how to deal with the fact that she was now going to be working with a woman she had once been in a serious relationship with.

A _very_ serious relationship, mind you.

Skye Lorne. Now ex-Defender. Also ex-lover.

* * *

The galaxy was too damned small for its own good.

From the quarian academies on Rannoch, to the university dormitories on Earth, and finally to the barracks on the Citadel, Roahn's sordid history of relationships had been a varied montage of short-lived binges that had always failed to result in anything concrete. By quarian standards, she had gone through a higher number of partners (many of them sexual) than average, all made possible from the passage of time and technology. When Roahn was was in her teens, medical advances had progressed to the point where the younger quarians could augment themselves enough to give their immune systems a noticeable boost, though still not significant enough to permanently get them out of their enviro-suits. Good enough for little jaunties but not sustainable enough to drastically alter any lifestyle. Still, many quarians, including her, had taken advantage of the newfound freedom and safety that had been provided for her, most noticeably in the form of pursuing potential mates for romance, an activity that many young quarians had begun to take part in quite earnestly.

Roahn had not started this newfound trend off on a good foot. While on Rannoch, she, like many of her fellow students, were enamored with the possibility of taking a boy back to their dorm to sleep with them now that they held the capacity to do so without fatally risking their health. Roahn had been blinded to the notion back then that sex was some wondrous and magical event in which words could not possibly hope to do it justice, something that could only be spoken about in whispers during the private hours of the night. It soon became a rite of passage in the dorms for students to sleep with each other as early as possible during the solar year. Not one to be left out, Roahn had determined to find herself a partner for the task.

It had not taken her long to locate one. In no time, she had managed to drag another quarian, whose name she could not remember, back to her room. She had prepared for this day for an entire week—she had consumed a bunch of medication to minimize any chance of infection and she had taken the time to peruse many books on being a successful sexual partner. There was no way that she was going to screw this up. She had felt completely ready when it came down to the eleventh hour, all of her preparations buzzing in her head like the throb of alcohol.

Unfortunately, the amount of studying she had performed had not been matched by the unfortunate guy she had dragged back home, although this was not apparent right away. They had got as far as stripping off their enviro-suits, performed some light making-out, and even proceeded to touch each other sensually. However, when it was actually time to perform, the man found out, at the worst of times, that he was having some serious problems with getting himself excited enough. A common affliction amongst males of all races and something that could have been easily alleviated with a self-depreciating joke, or by the male offering to give Roahn pleasure while he sorted out his own problems. Sadly, he did neither. The male had spent a few minutes trying to get himself into the proper headspace, almost forgetting that Roahn was in the same room with him. Some frenzied rubbing was applied, to no avail. Two minutes of nothing happening turned into ten. Then twenty. Meanwhile, Roahn had been lying naked on the bed this whole time, her expression slowly sliding from concern, to confusion, and finally to boredom. She finally called it a night after thirty minutes had passed, with the male still frantically trying to get himself ready to do the deed. The moment had been ruined and Roahn had to kick the guy out of her room while he had been in the middle of pleading with her for a second chance.

There would not be one. Roahn did not take at all to whiners.

The second male Roahn had managed to secure was significantly more confident than the last one, with a bit of a swagger to his step. He had been a rather charming fellow, able to ply praise when it was most appreciated. It had also helped that he was a well-built looking quarian. Got good grades, too, so it looked like Roahn had found herself a catch.

She would be in for a rude awakening.

The two of them had set aside a night to sleep with the other in short order. This time, Roahn had gone to the man's cabin. She had taken her time in removing her enviro-suit when they had gotten their room all sealed and germ-free, so much time that the male had managed to remove his entire suit while Roahn had only just finished taking off her helmet. Impatient, instead of the man politely waiting by for Roahn to be ready, he had started to move in on her, frantically kissing her face as while he had slowly proceeded to push her down onto the bed. Whatever fizzy sensations Roahn had been feeling from the anticipation of making love all evaporated instantaneously as adrenaline and panic flooded her brain and flared every nerve in her body searing hot.

Suddenly, things had stared to make a whole lot more sense for Roahn. In the moments leading up to them having sex, the man had made several crass remarks to her about being the first to lay with the daughter of the "galaxy's greatest warrior," ostensibly meaning her father. Being young and stupidly blinded by the promise of sex, she had initially disregarded these comments as just the kind of dumb stuff people said when nervous. But as she had now become pinned upon the cot in the dorm, the large man's naked body straddling her, she had come to the realization that this whole meeting had not been borne out of a mutual affection for the other, as she had hoped it would be, but by a juvenile and dangerous desire to lay with her and to boast about having her as a conquest, considering her important lineage.

It had frightened her when everything had come together in her head. But her father had taught her long ago what to do with that sort of fear.

Turn it into a weapon.

With a powerful yell, Roahn had reared back her leg and lashed out as hard as she could in the span of a second. She ended up hitting her target perfectly: directly upon the man's groin.

The fight went out of him instantly. The lights in his head dimmed as he clutched between his legs to the testicles that Roahn had just displaced with her well-placed heel. The only sound, a thin squeak, hissed from his mouth as his entire body stiffened in agony before relaxing into near shock.

But Roahn had not been finished. Now completely enraged that she had been thought of as a trophy and that she had nearly been raped, she had been eager to show this man that he had no idea what kind of nest he had just kicked. Roahn had then started punching the male with closed fists, rapid-fire, one after the other, kicking him off of her beforehand. He had collapsed upon the bed, blood pouring from his mouth as Roahn now whaled on him with vicious blows, over and over and over again.

In the end, Roahn left the room in a huff, her suit fully back together, now with a dark cloud hanging over her head. She had provided the male quarian with a broken jaw, a broken nose, several loose teeth, and had completely demolished his pride. He had been teetering on the edge of consciousness when she left him, listless and coated with his own blood. She would not face any repercussions for this, not unless the man was going to reveal that he had nearly sexually assaulted Roahn which had prompted his well-earned beating in the first place.

After that, Roahn made a promise to not date any more quarians for a while.

Things got better after Roahn had enrolled in a university down on Earth. She had met another man—a human this time—and had finally made love in what had been a much more relaxing and safe encounter. This man had been a patient lover who had gone slow with her, fully open to cater to her inexperience. The encounter had gone well, all things considered. There had been no consternation on her part on lying with a human, not to mention that she had gone to bed an entirely satisfied woman when they had finished.

Regrets? There had been very little. A successful night, all around.

She had met up with the human a few more times for sex before their relationship eventually fizzled out. Shifting priorities, figuring things out, the cause of which had yet to reveal itself fully to her. Still, Roahn had been thankful that her first _real_ experience in sexuality had been a positive one. As far as she was concerned, the first two did not count.

For the next few years, Roahn floated in and out of these short-lived relationships on an irregular basis well into her stint with the Defenders. She had hooked up with a few more humans, both male and female, an asari or two, and even a turian woman who had been one of the most maddingly stoic people she had ever met in her life, until she finally went to bed with her where she had managed to make her scream loudly in ecstasy.

Skye had been her longest romantic partner, come to think of it. Someone that she once trusted very well. The human was headstrong, extremely cocky, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous. Roahn could still visualize the woman's features clearly in her head: thick red flaming hair, warm eyes the color of mottled glass, a dimpled smirk on her lips, and light bands of freckles providing character. Poised, confident, and handy with a rifle. The fact that she gave good sex was an added bonus. No wonder Roahn had been attracted to her. For a while, Roahn had felt safe and secure with her relationship with the woman. After years of being unable to make any sort of a meaningful connection beyond physical intimacy, she had felt that maybe there was a thread tying the two of them together.

Perhaps it was simply fate or rather Roahn's ability to self-prophesize her eventual destruction that history would once again repeat itself.

Their breakup, perhaps an inevitable outcome, had been a sudden and tense tidal wave smashing headlong against a cliff wall. The signs had been obvious in hindsight, but the way that they had parted had been rather terse. Some intense words had been exchanged and one of the parties left near tears afterward. Based on how fraught their last moments together had been, Roahn figured that she would never get the chance to see Skye again.

Now that the human's arrival was imminent, she was still trying to figure out if she was truly ready to resume a discourse with the woman.

For the team's sake, Roahn hoped she had it within herself.

* * *

Roahn had been so wrapped up in her internal thoughts that she nearly ran headlong into her father upon finally exiting the elevator. The both of them stumbled as they narrowly avoided the other, each one placing a hand on the other's shoulder to momentarily steady themselves.

"Sorry," Shepard said. "Wasn't looking where I was going."

"No," Roahn shook her head. "I was going too fast around the corner. My mistake."

Shepard shrugged as a way of accepting the light apology. "You just get done meeting with Garrus? How'd it go between you two?"

She swallowed, more out of instinct than anything. Roahn had literally just finished with burying her misgivings with Skye deep down into the recesses of her mind and now she was having to exhume them all over again. Flashes of the human woman came in rapid-fire fashion: the pronounced sashay of her hips, the warmth of their body as she pressed against her, the breath from her mouth tickling her ear as she sensually moaned. Roahn nearly had to make a physical tic to stop the memories from overwhelming her, taking a slow blink to firmly lock the thoughts back.

"I'd say things are promising," she offered with a light bob of her head. "We discussed adding new members to the crew, mostly. That, and the lack of the fish tank in the captain's quarters."

Shepard laughed at that. "Don't tell him, but be thankful for the fish. Garrus has never been particularly good at keeping pets. So, this new crew. Anyone I'd know?"

"Oh," Roahn said in a teasing voice, "perhaps. You might have run into them a time or two. I don't know… do the names Liara and Grunt ring any bells for you?"

The human bumped his eyebrows up before he closed his eyes and shook his head derisively, still chuckling all the while. "I'll be damned. And I thought Garrus was being his usual annoying self when he said this would be 'just like the old days.' I'm now getting a hefty dose of déjà vu."

"They haven't accepted yet, just so you know. We—Garrus and I—just feel that they were the best people to have for the team."

"And you'd be hard pressed to find anyone better," Shepard said as he lifted a finger, now starting to walk in his original direction. "I'd pick them too, if the decision was up to me."

Shepard then proceeded to depart down the hall towards the forward batteries, but Roahn was not done with him just yet. Turning to face the departing human, Roahn spread her stance, singular in the passageway.

"Dad?" she called.

Shepard immediately looked back. "Yes, Roahn?"

"I'm…" she slowly treaded forward, absentmindedly squeezing her metal fingers in dread as she did so. "I know that the missions we take are going to be dangerous. That's why we're here, isn't it? To do the job that everyone else won't? But at the same time… I'm worried if we're ready enough. If… if _I'm_ ready enough."

Her father's face turned stone-like, but his eyes still lidded kindly in her direction, silently imploring her to finish her thought.

"I want to be a good leader. I want to show everyone that I am deserving of this chance. Yet I know that because of this danger… and this fear… that the people I'm going to command could possibly die. I've seen it before, when I was with the Defenders. I led people into combat and many _died_ following my orders. So many… I've forgotten all their names. I know what the intensity of battle can do to someone. Umbra deserves an XO that can keep everyone safe. I… I have to be that person… but I'm not sure how I can do it without fearing the worst outcome."

Shepard considered, trying not to stare at his own daughter in doubt. His own mental image of her needed to be reinforced as an icon within himself, perhaps his lone source of hope while the rest of his life burned around him. He finally appraised her with his steel eyes, chewing the insides of his cheeks before replying.

"If you want to protect yourself from the pain of losing your comrades," he said, "then you have to make some decisions."

"Anything," Roahn nearly pleaded.

"One way that I know of is that, if this is what you truly want, you cease looking at the people under your command _as_ people. Think of them as pieces on a game board, tokens, if you wish. They're not your friends. They're not anything to you. They just exist to do their jobs and that is all you should think about."

Nothing in those few sentences sat right with Roahn at all. The very antithesis to her father's entire existence all wrapped up in so many words. And they had tumbled out of her _father's_ mouth?! Roahn was about to make an outraged reply, halted at the last second when Shepard raised a hand to cut her off, not yet finished.

"_Or_," he emphasized, "you think in the inverse. You protect yourself by building up your confidence in your crew, choosing to rely on each other for support. Everyone is to be thought of with definite importance, as valued comrades, each one carrying their own strengths and weaknesses with you trying to figure out the balancing act of managing everyone's abilities. When you start to think that way, you place your trust in these people, relieving you of some of the burden. You can then approach a plan with clear eyes, now acutely aware of the advantages and disadvantages each person might have in any situation."

Roahn breathed a sigh of relief so large it was visible by the pronounced slump of her shoulders. "I can surmise which school of thought _you_ adhered to, eh?"

"The proof stands before your eyes," Shepard said as he reassuringly laid a hand on Roahn's shoulder. The quarian leaned into her father's touch, already relaxing into his palm as she found sanctuary from the unsaid love. "The choice remains up to you."

"I'll… think about it," Roahn murmured. "But thank you. For listening, I mean."

Shepard shrugged again like it was the most natural reaction for him to consider. "Roahn, I will always lend you an open ear. We're family, and most importantly, I love you. If you ever need any advice, no matter what subject, you can always come to me. Anything you need, just ask."

Obscured, yet evident, Roahn's lips curled in a grateful smile. Thank the ancestors she had this man for a father.

"Okay," she said in agreement.

* * *

_Citadel Tower__  
Galactic Assembly Hall_

Cirae Idetha was about to go mad.

The amphitheater proportions of the Assembly Hall produced wet echoes to reverberate throughout the room as colorful voices all rose in a chorus, chattering aimlessly amongst their owners. Each individual tone spoke at low volumes, but the combined audio congregation created a nearly unrelenting roar instead of what should have been a whisper-level. The room was shell-shaped, a bowl-like construction with circular tiers of territorial representatives each filling the seats that notched the rows. Each seat faced the front—the lowest level—where a thick bench made out of wood from a human rainforest sat intimidatingly, where a frightened looking asari in Defender armor, a lowly captain, sat down below and looked up at the aliens surrounding her from on high.

Cirae shut her eyes, trying to drown out the noise, her lips mouthing a curse. An asari herself, Cirae Idetha's delicate features belied her age of three hundred and ninety-three years, but a few hard lines cracked at the edges of her lines, betraying her experience. No longer a maiden, most definitely.

The natural hectic nature from her youth was unmissed today. Cirae had found that a matron's tendencies to think more outwardly had come earlier than average for her. It had been a pretty big deal, back in her home state, when she had been elected to serve as her area's representative, as many of the asari that made up the governing block were either matriarchs or leaving their matron stages themselves. Youth was not the face of politics, at least not in the case of the asari.

Representative Idetha. In one of her few strokes of immodesty, she found herself relishing the important-sounding title. Elected to office two years ago as Thessia's junior congresswoman, Cirae had joined the newest congressional body erected to serve underneath the Council: the Galactic Assembly. While having an official sounding title and its entire reason for its existence to establish legislation via the will of the individual people, the way how its current management mishandled the Assembly's function was so severe that it felt like she was sitting in on a dysfunctional meeting for alcoholics.

The amphitheater, near capacity, seated four hundred. Four hundred people to engage in proper debate and legislation, in theory. Today it was just filled to the brim of imbeciles talking their heads off and endlessly stalling, Cirae thought to her frustration.

The armored soldier down at the bottom chewed her lip nervously as she took in the sight of the chattering Assembly. The sheep thrown to the wolves. The asari captain had just spent a good three hours delivering her testimony about the recent Defender assaults within the human-controlled territories, a subject that should have ordinarily enticed the sort of military respect that accompanied someone with at least the rank of a colonel. Yet the Defenders had sent a _captain_ to entrust with their stances. If this was a court of law, Cirae figured that the Defenders would have gone ahead and asked guilty plea already if this was how confident they were with their poor leadership as well as their poor decisions.

The captain's secondary order of business had been rather inadequately timed with the events that the first had entailed. Apparently, the cost of running an army was quite expensive and the Council, in their infinite wisdom, had granted the Defenders an allowance large enough to only cover a third of a galactic standard year's worth of the Defenders' total operating budget. After delivering some of the truly disastrous news of the huge losses the Defenders had incurred from both New York City and Luna, the captain now had to deliver the unfortunate request for additional financial assistance. A bold request—no one ever relished asking for more money in such a way. Not only that, but her superiors had also requested that she ask for additional managerial responsibility over the Defenders' total measure of control of their own resources, taking a percentage away from governmental oversight. A reasonable request, Cirae had thought, considering the evidence provided of the current hierarchy not working out as well as intended.

A shame that reason and politics never found a way to coexist peacefully.

Cirae sent a sad smile down towards the woman at the front. She felt for the soldier. She truly did. Having been in the service herself, she was quite familiar with the pitfalls that bureaucracy was naturally riddled with, even more so when it came to the military. Perhaps that was why she had seen fit to join the bureaucracy in the first place, to at least say that she made an attempt to fill in those pitfalls while everyone else fiddled with their thumbs.

Cirae would accept no other justification for that decision. To say otherwise would be to admit that she was a failure.

She would not be a failure.

The Defenders had been a well-intentioned experiment, she had realized, perhaps a fighting force that could have been made into a legitimate threat towards the PMCs, but the amount of politicking and imposed restrictions on such a multi-ethnic army was akin to keeping a fighting varren locked up in a cage half its size. Bureaucracy had compromised its ideals time after time again. The Defenders should have been seen today as harbingers of security yet, with the huge amount of losses they had accrued from their constant squabbles with the PMC had resulted in a devastating series of blowbacks in terms of morale and financial support. Many in the congressional hall viewed the Defenders as useless, a bloated and wasted effort at the taxpayers' expense.

_When you send legions of hastily trained troops into the middle of the worst combat zones in the galaxy, what else could you expect?!_

She tapped her fingers against the built-in display at her desk. A suite of speaker options, many of them grayed out by the software, accidentally sprung forth after her fingers came too close to the sensors.

The captain's voice had wavered in her testimony, but she had managed to keep everything together through the end. An impressive feat for a first real encounter with politicians, Cirae had to admit. She wondered how old the soldier down there was. Or rather, how much older Cirae was compared to her. As young as she had been when she put on a uniform? No, the soldier looked far younger than that. Conscripted to scramble in the trenches back during the war, perhaps? The congresswoman's teeth gritted. A war like that all claimed something from everyone. For many, it was their lives. Others, their innocence.

Cirae briefly floated back to the blood-stained battlegrounds of Thessia. The war had claimed her in some way also. She had been a commando back then, young but with natural talent. Words had meant nothing to her all that time ago. She had thought that all problems could be solved with a gun. Her unit had dug in at all the most hellish points of Thessia, her homeworld and the homeworld of all asari, defending the capital from the Reaper scourge. She could still remember the flash of her guns, the crash of thunder, and the soaked-feeling of the biotic energy surging from her body in a rush of muscle and nerves given form. The days had melted into one another. The frothy smoke above had consumed the sun.

Borne from a sinister intelligence, metal and ruined flesh had rained down from the skies back then. Cirae had been more superstitious then, too. It would have been easy to imagine the goddess was finally raining wrath down on them, considering the arrogance blind before their very eyes. Along with her team, it had been a difficult affair to push the invaders back, but she had managed to accomplish just that for seven long months. Tired, hungry, and near death, they had fought to the last man, moving from derelict building to building, staving out as long as they could, fighting to survive the wave of approaching death.

She would end up surviving mostly intact. As would most of her squad. All of them would actually become the first asari to step back into the city after coming home, victorious from war. Still tied by their orders, they would be the first squad to fly to the ruined government district and step into not the governess' hall, not asari archives, but the half-decimated Athame temple. A temple devoted to a nearly dead religion. It had seemed like such a waste to Cirae, trying to see if anything in such a seemingly unimportant building could be salvaged.

Until they had finally taken their few steps into the chapel. Then everything had become clear to Cirae.

They would be the first to see what the temple had hidden.

They would be the first to realize what their people had done to the galaxy, how they had tricked the galaxy for millennia.

Her people had hidden a _Prothean beacon_.

Someone had to have known.

No, they _all_ knew.

Cirae had come to this realization in a flash back there, as she overlooked the ruins of her city. Her whole government had to have known about the beacon's existence. It could not have been possible any other way. The asari, the supposed bastions of wisdom, had been lying to all of the races the entire time by suppressing this secret, not bothering to offer it up to share its knowledge to the galaxy and to keep the rewards to themselves.

Cirae had wondered how many people knew of the secret back then.

She still wondered how many knew right now. In this very room, even. Were all the asari in this congress complicit in the cover-up? A menagerie of liars. How they managed to avoid blowing the whole thing wide open for so long was beyond even her.

She had been detained, of course, for laying eyes upon the shattered remains of the beacon. Asari command had interrogated her for hours, threatening to go after her family and friends if she so much as spoke a word of this to any other soul. Life imprisonment, constant surveillance, the usual terror tactics. Cirae had complied, as she still believed in the righteousness of governments back then. But there had always been a nagging pull exerting itself upon her subtly, urging her to tell someone, anyone about what her people had done.

Years back, the arrest of a prominent Alliance senator on Earth had resulted in the whole ordeal finally being revealed to the galaxy—apparently the senator had secured tentative proof of the beacon's existence and had been waiting for corroborating testimony before making any official announcement, but the human's own wrongdoings had caught up to him before that could happen. Cirae had been reprieved of her mental burden, but a hole still lingered within her, a fresh and raw mark that occasionally took the time to pain her severely, as if taunting her for holding in what had been something so important for so long.

The regret that she had not been the one to reveal the beacon to everyone else. She had been forever denied her rest because she had been too afraid to speak up.

The Council (with some trepidation) had ended up diplomatically sanctioning the asari for their transgressions, but many in circles of high importance mused that the meted punishment had been too light, and Cirae agreed with them. Many multi-ethnic conglomerates had been forced to reduce their diplomatic ties to the asari republic, with some having to ban all trade on certain goods with asari-controlled worlds. Cirae thought that her people deserved worse than that if they were to learn. Had she been in charge, she would have recommended harsh cuts to the asari embassy, implement foreign military posts on Thessia to placate the other Council members, and immediately declassify every single shred of information the asari had on the Protheans and disperse them to their allies. The sanctions that had ultimately ended up passing through the committee were so transparently paltry that Cirae knew that the councilor and her cronies had been breathing sighs of relief upon learning of the relative lightness of the retribution.

_No sense of decency_, she sourly thought to herself. _They're making a mockery of us._

Cirae had vowed, once she had become an official politician, that she would keep her integrity intact throughout her entire term. For as long as she was elected, she would not compromise her values and be bought out like a common whore. That fiery conviction was what won the hearts of her constituents.

It was what kept her fighting mad now, listening to this rabble circle endlessly in debate.

The largest icon on her holo-panel was one of the myriad that was grayed-out, emblazoned with the universal symbol for "talk." In theory, all Cirae would have to do would be to tap on it, and her voice would be allowed to boom throughout the chamber, taking into consideration that there was not a queue for hopeful speakers looking to add their sound bite to the mix. Seeing as no one else was making an attempt to address the soldier down at the bottom of the hall some more, Cirae knew that she would have no other chance before all of them would be forever lost.

Unfortunately, the way the congressional hall was set up, the "old guard" of politicians, or rather the politicians with the longest tenure were delegated the right to speak first, as sort of a "first come, first serve" deal. There was a natural rivalry between the newer incumbent politicians and the older, especially when it came to doling out speaking time—the elder politicians usually hogged all the available time provided to each race, hardly ever giving Cirae or her peers a chance to let even a single syllable ring in everyone's ears here.

Darkly, she now appraised the non-functioning talk button, fully knowing that she would never be given an opportunity to use it until the elder asari who had been here longer either retired or died.

Still, one could not remove the rot by scraping at the surface. It had to be cut out from deep in the core.

Cirae jammed her thumb on the talk button. The holo-console beeped angrily at her. A denial. Expected, but still frustrating nonetheless. She continued to look down upon the shaking soldier all alone on that dais, wanting to be the calming voice that she so desperately needed, that so many of her ilk could have used when it counted.

She pressed the button again. And again. And again. The panel blared at her every time. She was going to repeat this act of insanity _ad infinitum_ as a way to satiate herself and perhaps to convince herself that she was doing everything in her station to actually do something meaningful.

_Everything, Cirae?_

Even her subconscious was not on her side.

Now her thumbing of the button increased to a rapid-fire tempo, switching over to her pointer finger to deliver a drilling motion towards the switch. She must have pressed the damn thing about thirty times in five seconds when a scratchy voice burst from the speaker on her desk.

"_Don't._"

The intercom shut itself off before Cirae had a chance to respond. It had the effect of causing her to cease her fruitless actions, anyway. She recognized that voice quite well and immediately began to dread the sort of looks she was attracting from the person that had delivered the command.

Faction Leader Irissa sat firmly upon the central divide of the room, her eyes not upon the poor subject at the bottom, but was instead staring daggers at Cirae. Her voice, razor-sharp and light as glass, could be heard above any din of a crowd. A severe looking matriarch with a multitude of white facial patterns painting her violet skin, Irissa's only mandate (from Cirae's point of view) was purely to maintain the status quo at the expense of their people's long term growth. She was the sort of woman who would bite the heads off her own allies if they so much as treaded a toe out of line. If Cirae wanted to talk in this chamber at all, Irissa would be the one who would have to allow it. And now her sights were set on her.

Cirae hoped her natural gulp was not as visible as she feared to the woman, seated so far away.

The talk button still remained grayed out. She would glumly stare at it for the remainder of the session.

The captain down below would be asked no more questions. A pity.

* * *

"Productive meeting?" her bodyguard, another asari by the name of Veyre asked as she met Cirae on the mezzanine, the two of them trying to create a bubble within the stream of passing politicians.

"Fucking terrible," Cirae muttered as she shouldered her jacket on. "What else is new?"

"Sorry to hear that, ma'am."

It would be a fifteen minute walk back to her office, with Veyre at her side most of the way. All congress members had bodyguards assigned to them—it came with the job. Cirae had not picked out Veyre specifically to be her protector, but it was an aspect that she quickly had to get used to. Although Veyre was not exactly the most eloquent of conversationalists, her brusque way of speaking still managed to betray a slight empathy about her, hinting at buried similarities between the two.

Cirae was not going to jabber Veyre's ear off with ranting about the injustices she faced as a junior congresswoman. She got plenty of self-satisfaction doing just that by herself, back in the sanctity of her apartment. They now joined the flowing throng, taking the carpeted steps with a purposeful stride, with Cirae already lost in thought, Veyre's head on a swivel as she stayed by her side.

What was it going to take for her to gain any respect here? At least humans had the advantage by being severely shorter lived, because at this rate Cirae was going to have to wait _centuries_ before she could even be considered as one of the old guard. Centuries. Was she going to be completely broken down, worn out after so much time had passed? The thought filled her with dread, the very notion that she could even see a tiny reflection of Irissa within her…

"_Representative Idetha!_"

Medium pitched. Sublimely smooth. Savagely sharpened edge of the words.

_Goddess save me…_

Slowly she turned, imagining that her eyes were acting as a laser point, the end of the beam striking the steps now rising in front of her, now slowly ascending each individual level, the blood-red fibers of the carpet scratching at her very eyes until the creamy-white hem of a custom Thessian moissaGear dress edged into view. Its wearer, the hawkish Irissa, glided down the stairs, her amber eyes cutting a path directly toward her.

Cirae stepped forward, about to speak, but Irissa made a curt motion with her head. _Follow me_, was the obvious meaning. The faction leader now stepped back towards the amphitheater entrance, halting in the little alcove that led to her private box. Cirae motioned for Veyre to stay behind, out of earshot, and stepped into the shadowy recess, trying hard to conceal her fear.

"Do you think you're being _clever_, Idetha?" Irissa immediately went on the attack. "Are you so eager to get your voice on the record, is that it? After the notoriety, perhaps? The media loves a firebrand—it's good entertainment for the masses, but it does not suit us when we don't benefit from these fruitless displays!"

The younger asari's mouth fell open, at a loss, so Irissa seized the gap in her stead.

"Every time you push that button to talk—or should I say, _attempt_ to talk—I see it. No asari in that chamber does a thing without me knowing about it. So, when I see that one of the newest representatives has pummeled the button a hundred times in less than a minute… I just… I'm _appalled_ at the lack of decorum, Idetha. I have no words."

"No one else was talking, so I figured that the time was right for me to pick up the slack," Cirae responded, her voice a bit weaker than she would have liked, but there was a sturdy enough foundation. "Besides, I had some points that I felt could have used additional clarification."

Irissa's nostrils flared. "You've been here long enough to know that any of the talking points that are on the agenda to be discussed are all decided upon beforehand in our delegation committee meetings—meetings that you are not a member of."

"Yet."

The word had spilled out from her mouth before Cirae could even comprehend that she had said it. She clamped her jaw back, already horrified at the slip.

Irissa, on the other hand, nearly went volcanic at the representative's jab. "You…" she seethed, "…you are an arrogant one, Representative Idetha. You consistently forget your place. You try to bludgeon your mandate through without a thought given to the rest of your congressional peers. You care little about collateral damage as long as the end result suits your purposes. You would willingly tread all over us all for your misplaced sense of honor. In other words: you are a loose cannon. I cannot have a loose cannon on my team."

"With all due respect, _representative_," Cirae punctuated each syllable of the word with a forceful click of her tongue, "I didn't come here to be muzzled. The intrinsic value between us is much less than you would credit."

"You have a role to fill. What does it say about you if you are unable to play that role?"

"I don't think that matters. I was elected with the expectation that I was to serve my district. At no point did anyone say that I was elected to serve _you_."

Cirae saw Irissa's hands tighten to the point where azure crackles of biotic energy popped from between her knuckles. It seemed like the faction leader was seriously considering slapping her with a biotic attack. Assaulted by Irissa, here in the assembly hall. Oh, what an _honor_ that would be.

But the temporary loss of sanity was quickly erased as Irissa blinked and relaxed her posture. "You'll never be a great politician if you only think of yourself, Idetha," she hissed. "You can throw yourself at the walls of the cage all you want. There are many others aside from me who can clamp down on you further, so consider this the extent of the courtesy that you will receive from us. I don't ever want you to make such a display like you did back in the chamber ever again. You will not make another fractious demonstration while I am around. Got it?"

The whole demand was ridiculous to Cirae. Not only was Irissa trying to smother her from speaking, she was actively preventing her from conducing any due diligence as was her wont. If she was a representative who could not represent, then what exactly was she?

Irissa saw Cirae's mouth tighten in defiance and she shook her head regretfully. "You still have much to learn. We need to project a united front to the galaxy, Idetha. We have been cowed, shamed, because of what the war uncovered. The last thing that we need is for people to discover the discord that has run rampant between us. We think in millennia, representative, not centuries. Try to see things from the bigger picture in the future—that's a trait that all effective leaders have. As is your duty as an _asari_."

Projecting a confident sneer in Cirae's direction, the kind of look prevalent with those secure in their station, Irissa swept away out of reach, heading back towards the stairs to leave the younger congresswoman alone. Shaking violently from impotence and rage, not noticing Veyre peer her head around the corner to check up on her, thoughts blazed through her mind in a choking flood.

Immobilized by the very bureaucracy she inhibited. The darkened edge of her path. Her vision for her rise had all been smoke and mirrors, an illusion.

_You'll never be a great politician._

Seething, Cirae shook her head to let the loose agonies tormenting her head tumble free. Sycophants and cronies: the entire body of the assembly. How many times a day had she looked upon her peers and had failed to suppress an astonished reaction for how simple these people could be. All for the so-called purpose of harmony. What a complete joke.

How could she hope to stand up against Irissa? The woman effectively headed every major committee that held an asari majority. If there was a path to change, Irissa was blocking her path at every turn. She had to figure out how she could bludgeon her way past the faction leader, to make her own mark without the elder asari's shadow constantly hovering over her shoulder.

All she needed was a plan.

Staving off depression as best as she could, Cirae finally found the strength to move her legs, carrying her off the mezzanine and towards the exit of the hall, endlessly seeking the answer to the riddle on how to stay true to her ideals without consenting to apathy, the greedy tug at the end of the spectrum, pulling her closer and closer to lethargy.

The silent battle within her raged in earnest, while a singular voice she recognized as her own whispered in her darkest thoughts.

Fly from the path.

* * *

**A/N: We're still very much in the process of introducing a few more characters, so I hope you'll bear with me once I finish getting the entire scope of this story out. I did say that this was the most ambitious thing that I've tackled so far! Hopefully you all are enjoying it, as intended.**

**I'm keen to hear any thoughts you have, if any.**

**Playlist:**

**Deciding on the Team**  
**"Procyon"**  
**Curtis Schweitzer**  
**Starbound (Original Video Game Sountrack)**

**Congress and Confrontation**  
**"Vespertillo"**  
**Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard**  
**Batman Begins (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	7. Chapter 7: In the Dark, They Gather

"_In the future, you throw grenades like tiny frisbees. Aren't they cute? Bet you haven't seen something like that before! And in another stroke of genius, we just so happened map both the throw mechanic and the detonation mechanic to the same button! It's not complicated, it's innovative!_

…_Okay, fine! We'll take it out of Mass Effect 2. Philistines."_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

_Bureau of Corporations – Main Entrance  
__Citadel – Presidium Level_

As much of a symbol in of itself as a beacon for the rich and powerful, the Presidium made up the entirety of the Citadel's central ring that linked all five of the enormous arms together. Ten kilometers in diameter, the Presidium was the home of all the major government offices that comprised the Citadel Council, in addition to being the location where every major corporation in the galaxy wished to erect a headquarters for their staff.

A shining veneer that glossed over the core of unpleasantness underneath. Despite the blows it had taken over the past few decades, the obstinate build of the government continually dispersed its blind order.

Resembling a corporate park with a standard gravitational pull, the Presidium had been meticulously landscaped to be a spotless and supposedly safe haven that was situated far away from the seedy underbellies that were the wards. Bright blue streams snaked through the lower levels of the ring, cutting through man-made canals after being regurgitated in sprawling fountains. Vegetation spilled from the outer levels, fertile greens providing the air with a freshness that the industrial air scrubbers could not hope to replicate. Elsewhere on the station would be parks of grassy fields, situated underneath an artificial sky replete with clouds and simulated wind breezes. The Presidium was even timed to a short night and day cycle, about six hours. The pearl-white metallic tiles were cleaned every two hours, subject to a spotless waxing by automated drones, responsible for zapping up every single errant dust particle that had the misfortune to befoul the road with its presence.

The entrance of the Bureau of Corporations was achromatic and unassuming, despite the emphasis its rather official sounding title would otherwise imply. Simply marked by a holographic sign pointing pedestrians in its general direction, the entire office was housed in one of the many colorless and indistinguishable buildings that made up the heart of the Presidium's governmental district. A wide mall jutted out briefly over a small lake right in front of the automated doors. The ersatz sunlight streamed down weightlessly, making the surface of the water sparkle as the beams hit it at the perfect angle.

It was a slow day today and the lone person circling the area near the entrance stood out as a blank dot upon the shining canvass.

Jack lapped the perimeter of the mall at a brisk walk, the direction of her gaze fixated to just a few inches in front of her, a dark look on her face. People gave her a wide berth as her path brought her into their proximity. The abstract and colorful tattoos that permeated her skin, not to mention her rather ruffian look, was enough to shock the more conservatively dressed individuals in the area (of which there were many) into steering well clear of her. Jack was not surprised at this treatment—it happened to her all the time. She had evolved a complex thick enough to disregard the opinions of people unknown to her thanks to her rather troubled childhood. Let them stare all they want.

Yet this forced isolationism, this self-imposed introversion, was all by design. Despite the tense looks in her direction, Jack liked the sort of attention she got. Any knee-jerk reactions of wariness or surprise from strangers at her ruffled appearance gave Jack such a delight. Oh, it was certainly fun to watch these people squirm when they tried to take in all of her. Her tattoos garnered the most attention, obviously. She took pleasure in watching where someone's eyes were tracing her body, helplessly trying to determine the deeper meanings behind the bizarre shapes she had chosen to ink onto her skin. Right now the only tattoos that were visible were the ones that gripped her hands and creeped up her throat, as her jacket and pants did an admirable job in covering everything else up. A notable improvement from her earlier days—back then, she used to trapeze around in nothing but a thin belt (practically) as a bra, leaving her nearly naked from the waist up.

Fuck's sake. She had actually succumbed to a sense of _prudishness_, she mused as she bit her lip.

Then again, those that had spent a lot of time with her eventually grew out of the need to make a summation of the presumed symbolism that she had decided for herself. They grew used to it after a while. In due time, Jack would soon appear as a normal person to these people, completely comfortable with her mannerisms. Shepard had been one of those people. His wife, too. Hell, everyone on the _Normandy_ all managed to see past her toughened façade after some time, damn it all.

That included the man making his way toward her right now. And what do you know, he still had not changed out of his dress blues from the party, ever the jarhead.

"I told you that I'm not one to wait!" she called over to James Vega as she took long strides in his direction, all while gesticulating heavily to the chronometer hovering above her wrist. "I've been here fifteen minutes, Vega!"

"I come from a broken homestead, give me a break," James defended as he finally reached up to the smaller woman. "Couldn't find a good time to slip away without Huston noticing, I'm sorry."

Jack sized the marine up a bit, keeping her mouth set in a hard line before she soon relaxed, allowing the thin traces of a smile to break through. Damn, this man was easy to forgive. "Did I miss anything after I left?"

"The usual back-patting and self-congratulations from the brass towards their own success with their new deal. All in all, not much."

Jack made a face. "The all-too-common masturbatory tendencies from your tone-deaf superiors, eh?"

"Essentially," James gravely nodded. "Ugh, I just get sick to my stomach imagining myself back in that room. Glad I ran into you, though. So, this is it, then? The Bureau of Corporations? They certainly don't make the places any more distinctive than the next."

"Yeah, well buckle up," Jack grimaced as she started walking towards the front of the faceless gray building, beckoning for James to follow with the gesture of a slender finger. "We've still got more bureaucracy to deal with. You take the lead on this one, okay? Never had any head for politics, myself."

"I'm not much better at it either," James scoffed as he locked himself in step beside Jack, both now stomping across the flattened avenue to reach the entrance. "I'm just hoping that this is the right place to see what CytoSystems—and its owner—really have that the Alliance wants for itself."

"Thinking that they're in bed with the devil?"

"The one we don't know, I'm afraid."

The thick glass doors parted smoothly to reveal a bare foyer beyond. The Bureau awaited. An empty desk with a singular datapad positioned towards the front sat all alone in front of them. Behind it, upon the wall, was an aquamarine-colored decal of the Citadel station, the room's only decorative feature. There were no couches or chairs to rest themselves upon, not even any light reading material scattered upon cheap desks. The place was as spotless as the rest of the Presidium but even less life lingered within these walls, if it could be believed.

James glanced back and forth, craning his head to see if there were any people collected near the elevator bays on both sides of the room. No such luck, they truly were all by themselves.

"Hello?" he called as he approached the desk, with the inkling that he might peer over the counter and see an employee crouched behind it for some unknown reason. Nothing else happened on any count. The room remained maddeningly silent.

Jack walked up to examine the datapad. The screen was colored a sickly yellow, with faint waves of static occasionally washing over its surface. There was only one button projected onto its face, nearly taking up the entirety of the screen.

_PRESS TO CONTINUE_, it read.

Jack looked over to James, who shrugged.

"Might as well," he said, not seeing much in the way of choices.

Jack apparently agreed because she then quickly reached out and tapped once upon the tablet. Scarcely any time had passed between her fingertip had made contact with the smeared surface when a burst of light was flung into the air from behind the desk, radiant hues of pink and violet and fuchsia all converging together in lightning bursts, fusing into a humanoid shape with a series of flashes, energy interweaving in circuit-like webs that clung to their form, giving way to the smiling shape of an asari, curvaceous and elegant.

"_Welcome to the Bureau of Corporations!_" the hologram spoke, startling both James and Jack. "_I am Avina and it is my duty to assist you in any way I can. How can I help you today?_"

The two humans briefly stared at the other, momentarily caught off guard. "I guess that makes sense," James shrugged, upon finally realizing what was happening. "Dealing with a VI might be easier than dealing with a regular receptionist."

Avina was the VI of the Citadel, an installed helper program designed mainly to assist newcomers who had trouble navigating the station or as a general information kiosk. Always portrayed as a nude asari, Avina was a staple of the Citadel, always around to provide answers to the best of its ability when needed. No surprise really that Avina had been granted some additional "responsibilities" by the Citadel to curb traffic flow at these bureaus.

To Avina, James now spoke, "I need to see the bureau's files on a particular company."

"_Certainly! May I ask which company or entity you are wishing to view?_"

"CytoSystems."

There was a distinct pause as the VI visibly processed this answer. "_One moment. I'm sorry, but these records are locked behind an Alliance database. I'll need to see Alliance credentials with the proper clearance before I am to allow you access."_

_Figures that the Alliance had already gotten to these files_, James groused. The intel corps were certainly meticulous in making sure that no stone was left unturned when it came to their secretive dealings with foreign companies. Sensitive documentation between them and their partners had already been placed behind lock and key to protect each other's interests. Still, that did not mean that the two of them were out of luck quite so soon. While any average joe could not walk in and see the complete record of CytoSystems' financial history, James was still an active duty marine. More than that, he was an N7 captain who had served on the _Normandy_. Suffice to say that he had the proper sort of access for this.

James raised his omni-tool in front of Avina's face, his credentials blazing in the form of a readable code. The eyes of the VI's asari form flashed green in a second before dissolving back into its robust and watery violet hues.

"_Credentials accepted_," Avina said. "_Welcome, Captain Vega. Your files will be ready for viewing in Room A3. Please follow the marked path for guidance_."

Tiny holographic arrows of campfire orange suddenly sprung up from the ground like ants, gently pointing a path around the desk and towards a hallway previously hidden behind the front desk. James and Jack followed the tightly etched line down towards the entrance of the main corridor, a thick boulevard filled to the brim with doorways, each one emblazoned with the room number atop each threshold.

Room A3 was close to the entrance, a reasonably easy excursion for the two. The room itself contained two chairs and a wide holo-screen. The bare essentials for performing document analysis. Not exactly an ergonomic haven, but James was hoping that they would not be staying too long here.

"Not the most hospitable of places," he noted out loud.

Jack just shrugged. "I've lived in worse."

The holo-screen, which took up a good portion of the wall opposite the door, already had a singular document in question loaded up onto the screen. The icon was of a paper file—an old holdover from past versions of human software that somehow persisted so long into the future. _CBC_33558494B565_CytoSystemsDbase_ was the name printed just below the icon. Whatever this folder contained, James knew that it would be a decent start towards the answers he currently did not know the proper questions to.

"You think that's all there is to it?" Jack raised an eyebrow, apparently puzzled that the bureau had only given them one document for such a large company.

"We'll know more when we drill down," James said as he pulled up a chair close to the screen. "Just pray that we don't have a lot of shit to sift through."

The marine raised a hand and made a gesture towards the icon, mimicking a tapping motion. The holo-screen detected the movement and a soft blip was heard. The icon winked and then vanished, opening into another folder that appeared to contain, based on the naming schema, a sufficient set of underwriting documents that James knew would be invaluable in his search. A success already.

"Yes!" he grinned broadly.

But the folder had not finished emptying its contents. In the next second, hundreds more document icons filled the screen in a messy sprawl.

"No!" James' face fell immediately.

"Now what?" Jack threw up her hands as she looked at the discombobulated mess. "There's _millions_ of them!"

"Well, I don't know!"

"I don't know, either!"

The two then spent the next several minutes helplessly scrabbling through the mix of clumsily deposited folders and files, painstakingly taking the time to skim the contents of each before deciding to place them in a hastily cordoned discard section or to return back to them for later use. Fortunately, the holo-screen permitted the use of two-person work, which made the entire process go by faster, though there was quite a lot of ground to cover in the end.

"Damn it," James gritted as he swiped between a stack of similarly grouped files.

"What?" Jack craned her neck.

"I've got a few balance sheets here, but all the financial and personal information has been redacted. Just black bars across the board."

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" Jack asked. "If you were a company, wouldn't you want to make sure that anyone outside of your employ wouldn't be able to see this stuff?"

"Yeah, well… I just thought we'd have an easier time with it, is all. Fuck's sake!"

Gritting their teeth in stoic silence, they resumed their seemingly futile efforts. Almost immediately James' eyes began to glaze over as he rummaged through document after document, his eyes reading the proper words but his brain was not fully interpreting them. His movements of filing the opened documents away became robotic, almost like he was concentrating on any variances he made in his motions at the screen rather than trying to find the information he was looking for.

Trouble was, he did not really have a clue as to _what_ exactly he was looking for. A misplaced decimal here? A magical blacklist document there? Did he seriously think it was going to be so simple? And now that he was confronted with the breadth of the obstacle—a metaphorical mountain—he was starting to have second doubts about this trip being a success at all. The bureaucracy was wearing him down once more. He always knew that paperwork would be the death of him one day.

He was about to give up completely after ten more minutes of no ground being gained when suddenly, Jack tapped him on the shoulder.

"I think I might have something," she said excitedly.

James leaned over, curious and thankful for the break from sheer boredom. "What have you got?"

"A copy of the incorporation documents."

This was a great find. The incorporation documents were the key evidence of a business' formation in all legal terms as a legitimate entity. The specific items in the documents varied from business to business, but they usually included the articles of incorporation/organization, associated bylaws, and operating agreements.

The two eagerly began to read through the linked files, first locating the cover page to scan it of its contents. Right away, a few flags caught their eyes. The dates at the top of the signed pages were a bit too recent. According to this, CytoSystems was incorporated just a tad over twenty years ago. That did not sound right to either of them.

"CytoSystems has been around longer than twenty years," James remembered from the party. "Right? Twenty years would be about… about when 'Madam' Phoria was made CEO."

He made special emphasis when pronouncing "_Madam_," making a face for good measure.

"She probably reincorporated the company when she took ownership," Jack guessed as she scrolled down the page. "Probably wanted to grind out a few wasteful programs and reintroduce it as an all new brand, perhaps?"

"Maybe," James said until he had to clench Jack's hand to stop her scrolling in place. He then pointed to a section where the boxes for the proper signatures were located. "Except… maybe she was never the sole owner of the company in the first place."

The area that James was pointed to had also been redacted in full, except for the descriptive titles that had been placed at the beginning of the signature line, indicating exactly what the checked boxes were for. Next to the line marked "_Initial Director(s)_" was a long black rectangle that presumably smudged out Phoria's signature, signing into permanence her ownership of CytoSystems and everything under its roof.

But directly underneath that was another black bar upon a blank line. Another signature.

Another owner.

"Shit, look at that," Jack gave a low whistle. "Someone else signed with Phoria. Co-CEOs."

Something was not sitting right with James. He could not stop shaking his head ever so slightly. "No one made mention of this at the reception up in the tower. Everyone was treating Phoria like she was the only one in charge of the company."

"Is she still? Could this mystery person have resigned between then and now?"

James then opened his omni-tool and accessed his extranet browser for any public information on changes in CytoSystems' leadership in the past twenty years. Historical records showed that between the original owner and Phoria's reign, no other director or CEO had been put into place to helm the company at that time. There was not even a whisper of another individual. A ghost. A dead end.

"Nothing," James said as he closed his tool. "A major corporation that is publicly traded and we don't have a clue as to who this second person is. We have nothing to go on. Nowhere to start."

"Don't give up quite so soon," Jack gave the man a firm rap on the arm with her knuckles. She succeeded in drawing his attention back to the main holo-screen, where she had found another document of note. "CytoSystems was kind enough to leave their ownership share portfolio lying around."

"Think this has something worthwhile?"

"Can't hurt to check."

Charts within charts of data filled the screen. Abstract pie graphs and jagged lines of alternating stalagmites and stalactites congested the blank areas, turning a pristine canvas into a sprawl of data-driven art. James' head hurt just looking at it all and he had to shut his eyes to recompose himself before he took on a methodical approach. He then slowly began scanning the document from the top, taking his time in absorbing all the necessary information, occasionally chastising Jack for going too fast as she intermittently scrolled the document down.

James pointed to a particular pie chart in the middle of the document. "There. The ownership percentages. Wait… something's off, here."

"What?" Jack squinted her eyes, trying to see what James was seeing.

"Well, from my limited knowledge of economics, I do know that the ownership of a company is not dictated by the title of the executives in charge, per se, but by how many shares they own, correct?"

"Makes sense."

"So, look at the graph," James said. "You have a big section here that, according to this, means that one entity, among millions, owns 51% of CytoSystems. A 51% share is a majority share, Jack. The controlling entity of this share is the one making the decisions on the company's behalf. But when we click on this section," James made a snapping motion of his fingers to coordinate the cursor, but the screen gave an angry blaring noise in response, "we can't access any names from this record."

Jack chewed on her lip, uncertain if there was any more to contribute. "But isn't this sort of practice… you know… standard? Should we _expect_ to not be able to view information that is deemed sensitive? Look, Vega, this sort of crap is beyond me so I'm just going to have to take your word on this."

"I'm not done, yet," the marine smiled. "Watch what happens when I click on the next biggest section of the pie chart. The one with only a 25% share."

He performed the same motion to the smaller section, a rather diminutive portion compared to the larger-than-life one situated next to it, but when the cursor clicked onto the graph, no alarms were uttered from the screen and, rather anticlimactically, an additional sheet of drilled-down information popped up smoothly, indicating to the two exactly who the owner of this smaller share was.

It was Phoria'Gula.

"Holy shit," Jack leaned forward, a hand now at her chin. "She's not the primary shareholder. She's CEO, but it's all a fancy title."

"Someone else is pulling the strings with CytoSystems," James agreed. He then stood up, almost like if the chair he had been sitting in had become too uncomfortable for him to rest upon, drawn by the need to be in constant motion, to soothe his curious mind. "All this time, all the literature that we read up on the company, it never pointed to the fact that Phoria was not the true face of CytoSystems. Every decision that company ever made never came from her own mind. It's all been the will of someone else."

Jack similarly rose, if only to stand closer to the screen, perhaps doubting what her eyes perceived right in front of her face. "Something else that's bothering me, now that you mention it, is that… we've been able to see this sort of data for ourselves. So… the Alliance _must_ have been aware of this deal when they brokered it? They _had_ to have known that Phoria is just a glorified mouthpiece."

James now clenched his hands behind his back, brow furrowed in frustration. "And the Alliance does pride itself on the prowess of its intel team…" he recanted wistfully. "They _knew_. They couldn't have glossed over something like this. Either they already have the identity of the majority shareholder or they just don't care. Frankly, I can't tell which prospect is worse. But now the next question I have is: was the deal with the Alliance partnership borne of Phoria's own doing? If not, is she being blackmailed by the majority shareholder to do their bidding?"

"Or is this person blackmailing the Alliance, forcing them into this deal?" Jack offered.

"Another possibility," James said grimly. "But I don't think the answer is in the rest of these files. Let's see if I can try something…"

Snapping off from the rest of his sentence so abruptly like he physically chomped upon the remainder of his words, James wheeled from the room and quickly walked back over to the front desk, Jack warily trailing behind. He slapped the edge of the table impatiently, causing Avina to spring back to life.

"_Hello Captain Vega!_" the VI greeted him cheerfully. "_Were you encountering some technical issues that you would like me to assist you with?_"

"I was just wondering if I could be granted additional viewing privileges on CytoSystems' data."

"_I may be able to assist. Please specify the exact document or area you would like further context for_."

"The identity of its main shareholder."

There was a distinct pause and Avina's form gave a subtle twitch as her holo-projector momentarily appeared to glitch. But that was not a glitch, James knew. Such visual tics only happened when a low-memory VI was engaging all of its thought cores to process a particular problem. Clearly his query had stumped it.

"_I apologize_," Avina said in her musical voice after three seconds—an eternity to a VI—had laboriously passed, "_but I am unable to provide you with the data you have requested_."

James leaned forward over the desk, a move that would usually serve to intimidate most organics, but the gesture was hopelessly lost on a VI. At this point, the whole move was done to reinforce James' growing impatience with Avina and her smiling face, shielding the root of the problem from behind a glass-like visage.

"And… why is that?" he gritted, already having murderous thoughts towards such bone-headed pieces of technology.

"_Providing individuals with sensitive company information from outside the established hierarchy is illegal and therefore restricted. The information that you have chosen to view has been marked confidential and can only be accessed by the company's executive team or anyone that members of said team choose to allow access."_

There was no point in trying to pry further, especially when he was up against a VI. James turned back to Jack as Avina deactivated behind him in a cascade of light and snapping noises.

"Worth a shot, I figured," he shrugged, with a little nudge in the direction of where the VI had once stood.

"Maybe not such a lost cause after all," Jack said as she crossed her arms. "It just gives us only one path to go by."

James now had a mirthful look about him. "If you're thinking what I'm thinking, you know how much of a long shot this is going to be."

"Name our options, tough guy."

"I can't."

James then placed his hands at the sides of his temples and began to massage them, already finding that the blood pumping through his veins was starting to slowly rise in response to the heightened stakes seemingly permeating the air around them. "Just so we're on the same page, we're thinking about waltzing into perhaps one of the most scrutinized corporations in this day and age with just the shirts on our backs and figuring that, somehow and someway, we get a chance to speak to someone at the executive level. And, if we're really lucky, there might be an opportunity to talk with Madam Phoria directly. If that's the scenario you're thinking of, then you must realize that it's crazy, it's insane, and it's probably not going to work. Just because we fought in the war does not automatically give us the license to go anywhere we please, so I'm still unsure as to how you could possibly think that we even have a chance at pulling off something like that."

James then spread his hands a bit, staring at Jack with patient fascination. "So, is _that_ the plan?"

"Pretty much," Jack offered immediately and so matter-of-factly that she levelled a smug grin at the man, relishing his verbal recounting of each individual step in the process.

The marine then looked at the floor, then up at the ceiling, until he finally looked Jack back in the eyes. His lip curled in thought, a pensive expression flitting across his face before he gave a submissive shrug, ejecting all of his worries and concerns in the process.

"All right, fuck it. Let's go see Phoria."

* * *

_She rose from the fiery sea, baking hot sand streaming off the skin of her back. The searing rays of the sun began scorching her in earnest, burning her and causing pinpricks of agony to ridge along her spine._

_Roahn clawed a hand free from the dusty pit, tiny granules still clinging to her. With a thick gasp, she pulled in fresh air to her lungs, quenching and nurturing, now that she had propelled herself to the surface, no longer doomed to suffocate._

_An ocean of sand stretched out before her in all directions. In a daze, Roahn simply sat half-submerged, not at all concerned with the fact that she was not wearing anything. The sky tilted as if she was in a delirious dream. Her lips were cracked, mouth completely parched. Her hair was dry and tangled in messy clumps. Images blurred in and out of focus, sent spiraling all over as dehydration began to overcome her._

_Fire… sand… death… what world is this?_

_Could this be… Rannoch?_

_Her mind sank into molasses. Thinking came slowly to her. She felt stupid, lethargic, on the verge of being overwhelmed. With a limp effort, she reached out as far as she could go and used her hands—both hands (she only vaguely realized that she was back together again)—to rip herself free from the rest of the sand that held her underneath the surface. She cried out as the boiling dust seared the skin of her hands, turning them red and causing blisters to form. The blisters soon popped as she continued to drag herself forward, liquid now dribbling down her fingers. Sobbing but continuing to exert herself, Roahn scrambled her way out, inch by inch, until her lower half overcame the hidden vacuum and she was able to pull her feet free._

_Naked and exposed to the raging elements, Roahn moaned as she felt herself cooking. From one problem to the next, it seemed. Weakly, she tried to raise herself up, but fatigue forced her to flow back down, now the skin of her stomach suffering as she too was roasted on that side._

"_H-Help," she whimpered as shapes off in the distance, atop the furthest dune, became watery wisps of gas. "Help… me."_

_The light was playing tricks with her eyes and soon the formless objects so far away dissolved into nothingness as they became memories. Even in the brevity of her own consciousness, the massive weight given to fleeting moments borne from the stretches of time were astonishing, the gravities crushing as they pulled in reactions, thoughts, and emotions to give her abstract thoughts meaning._

"_No…" Roahn moaned as she reached out her left arm, her three fingers cupping the rise of a nearby dune as if she could pull it back, like a curtain, and see the limitless beyond to destroy what little optimism she had in her heart._

_But, as she would soon learn, salvation comes in many forms._

_The air abruptly dimmed and cooled, like a blanket had been thrown over the entire desert. Roahn instinctively looked up and saw the terrible sight once more. The dark rectangle had returned high up in the air, holding back the light of the sun as it hovered miles overhead. Millions of miles, even. A perfect expanse of dark ridged dread, the rectangle seemed to hiss as it consumed the light behind it, leaving Roahn's planet to die an icy death as the coldness of space could claim it for itself._

_In seconds, she was plunged into darkness._

_The burning pain upon her body stopped, but a fragile chill crept forward to replace it. Roahn began to shiver as she now flung herself wholeheartedly onto the sand, desperately trying to seek out the last scraps of warmth the sun had burrowed deep into the ground before the icy air would tear it all away._

"_**You can't fight it."**_

_That horrifying voice._

_Roahn looked right above her in a blind panic to find a towering figure standing next just behind her. Draped in form-fitting armor. A cloak around their shoulders. And a domed helmet, dulled yet seemingly forged from the finest platinum, eyeless and soundless._

_Aleph's head now dipped towards her, his invisible gaze continuing to project malevolence and death as he silently beheld the pitiful quarian at his feet. He made no motion, no organic tic. He simply watched._

"_**You think your hatred can save you. But it's beyond even that. I will help you learn."**_

_A brutal tremble of bass notes assaulted Roahn's ears as a large, blood-red omni-sword lazily rotated into view at the back of Aleph's hand. Sparks streamed from the surface of the weapon in wondrous crackles, making bright ribbons in the air. It looked like it was bleeding fire._

_Deathly quick, Aleph raised the blade up into the air, the fine point seemingly spearing the dark abyss above, cracking it open from within, and brought it down hard. Roahn had raised her left arm in a pathetic attempt to ward the blow off, her eyes wide and shining as the deadly point neared her flesh._

_There was a sizzling snap as the sword finished its arc, not at all slowed._

_Roahn felt her own blood spray against her face as her left arm dropped away in a violent flurry of sparks, smoke rising from the dripping stump. Blindness slammed into her temples as her overwhelmed nerves cried out for mercy._

_She screamed._

* * *

_The Menhir_

Roahn jerked awake in bed, mouth open in her silent howl despite no voice trespassing beyond her vocabulator. Her stomach was a raging cauldron and her first vocal sob felt like boiling acid had been poured down her throat. Baking hot coals had felt like they had been shoved within the very tips of her left fingers, the heat scrambling up her nerves and roasting her insides. Her _missing_ left fingers.

Tears spilled from the suddenness of the pain, but it resonated for only a second before disappearing into the ether of memory for a moment, longing to be forgotten.

But the quarian was still left behind, hurting. The pain had merely been toying with her and it quickly sprang forward in the next second, a pouncing predator dead set on feasting upon her flesh.

She sat up fully, her fingers automatically searching for, and finding, the partition between her flesh and where the metal of her prosthetic began. Another sob as she found tangibility within her form. She had to think! This was really happening! The blood… the violence… Aleph… it had not been real. Just another memory.

A nightmare.

Then this pain… what was this pain?!

In her feverish delirium, Roahn gave a thought that wrenched the fingers of her prosthetic open, trying to fight past the tears that were spoiling her vision. Her hand quaked as her digits locked open in an arthritic freeze. Hateful things. Dens of angry insects crawling around within her very self, tearing her open. A cold and emotionless touch. Phantom pain ripping into her imaginary limb, chomping at her with its lustful aplomb. She clutched at the limb, curling into a fetal position as she suppressed another cry, body jerking as each wave of spasms tortured her as if electric shocks were passing through her.

As she writhed atop her bed, subject to the continued abuse, Roahn blindly sought out the catches of her arm near her stump. She depressed both at the same time and her arm dropped from her body, detached and empty. She pushed it off the edge of the bed, where it fell with a heavy _clunk_.

The pain still existed. It spread out from where flesh and bone ended. It hunted down her phantoms with a passion, breaching invisible barriers to scar its dreadful intent into Roahn's mind. She drew herself in even more, now squeezing the end of her stump, willing the pain to cease and give her some blessed relief. A soundless plea repeated _ad infinitum_ within her head, fruitless begging towards a cruel and faceless master.

_Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. _

In her throes, Roahn rolled off the edge of the bed, right next to where her prosthesis had landed. She paid it no mind, nor to the new discomfort that had aggrieved her backside when she had landed right upon her spine, but to the terrible and skeletal throbs that threatened to consume her and banish her to whatever hell awaited her arrival.

_Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitst—_

A gentle touch at her shoulder. A furtive presence over her. All of her suffering was sucked out in an instant through this touch, leaving Roahn gasping on the floor. She still remained curled in her position, deep and tender breaths rushing through a raw throat, but she finally pried her hand away from her stump, no longer afflicted, and now scraped her fingers along the floor to return the gesture, seeking the company of the one who had helped her.

"_It doesn't have to hurt, you know_," a gentle voice said. "_But that's all up to you_."

_Mom_, Roahn instantly thought. _Tali_.

Lifting her head up so that she could look upon the elder quarian with hope, Roahn felt like she had been injected with a gentle warming magma that filled her with heat and light. But when she finally had the strength to behold the breadth of her small room, a tiny hint of despair was allowed to creep back in as she realized the sad and obvious truth.

There was no one there.

As the lingering remnants of the pain continued to subside, Roahn sighed as she pushed up into a sitting position with one hand, now nursing a heavy headache. _Keelah_, that touch… it had felt so _real_ to her. But then again, so had the phantom pain. Right now, Roahn was too busy coming down from her spell that she did not suffer from the usual intestinal throb of thinking of her mother. She could only concentrate on one source of agony and remorse at a time.

What was it the doctors had said to her before about phantom pain? The side effect of her neurological pathways being permanently altered from her injury. Even recalling the agonizing sensations were enough to make her wince. As much as she desperately wished to take a painkiller for this occasion, she had been sternly advised over and over by the doctors that medication would do nothing to alleviate her condition. It was damage contained entirely within her mind and no drug could ever hope to fix what had been rendered irreparable.

Were these damaged neural pathways responsible for that brief episode—that lucid dream—she just had mere seconds ago? Roahn initially did not think so, but at least she had enough sense to come to the conclusion that her medical knowledge was pathetically limited to matters like this. Damaged pathways at all, it was easy to imagine that anything was possible.

Still subtly shaking as the absence of discomfort was replaced with a hungry emptiness, Roahn pressed her back against her cot, feeling somehow small even in her cramped room. She was grateful for the solace she had been afforded in her quarters, the XO's quarters, in addition to the privacy her visor gave her, ironically enough. Were she sleeping in the crew quarters, she would have had to suffer through a lot of awkward glances in her direction.

Roahn let out another sigh as she leaned her head back until the back of her helmet hit the side of the bed. She loosened her muscles and sprawled herself out in a drunken heap, eyes closed.

"Shit…" she murmured to herself, the tiny utterance enough satisfy her need to speak. Today was to be a nerve-wracking day already-she didn't need this adding on top of her already long list of worries. The new members were arriving at the _Menhir_ this morning. She needed to be a leader for them to look up to, not a scared and insecure (and definitely not fragile) quarian.

And then there was the fact that she was going to see Skye again. Skye...

_Keelah_.

She needed to project strength for what was to come.

Muscles rewired and nerves cooled, Roahn lay upright for several minutes, almost as if she was waiting for the next wave to come and take her again, but she remained unaffected in that time. Dimly opening her eyes, she found the prosthesis on the ground that she had discarded, looking rather pathetic all by its lonesome self. The empty socket faced her, longing to be filled. With a grimace and narrowed eyes, Roahn leaned over and plucked the appendage from where it lay, the metallic fingers limply dangling as it was carried through the air. Rotating it to be in alignment, she slowly connected the silver limb to the locking clamps upon her arms, twisting it until there was a magnetic pull and audible snaps emitted from the electrodes as they found a good connection.

She reached out for her mind, for that little flex that tickled the specific part of her brain, bursting past that overriding urge to cease her supposedly useless efforts because, against all odds, to feel what was lost should never have come to be. Her metal fingers gave a subtle twitch before they sprang outward and eventually closed into a fist.

Tight grip.

Roahn slowly let out all the breath in her lungs, never taking her eyes off of her fist. Methodically, almost haltingly, she spread out her fingers again, stretching them to their greatest limits before she clenched a fist again, but this time moved a little bit faster. More menacing this time around. Metal crushed against itself and Roahn could imagine stars exploding between her fingers as she squeezed, leaving a trail of liquefied stardust and flammable streams of gas swirling around her hand painlessly, beautifully.

Her breathing deepened, and her own gaze grew harder, diamond-like. Her eyes locked onto her hand as she repeated the exercise: fingers spread, fist clenched.

Again.

Fingers spread. Fist clenched.

Again.

Fingers spread. Fist clenched.

And again.

For the next half hour, Roahn would perform nothing but this simple routine, familiarizing herself with the sensations of the prosthesis, looking at it unblinkingly. Her powerful fingers glimmered in the low light, gentle whirring sounds emanating from the machinery, and Roahn imagined that, every time she closed her fist, she was obliterating Aleph's heart between her fingers.

* * *

_The Citadel__  
Arm 3 – Private Government Official Quarters_

Cirae Idetha's brow furrowed as she sat at her desk in her apartment, an opened bottle of human whisky next to her keypad, as she leaned back in her chair, sourly staring at the large screen in front of her. She had been seated at this desk for at least an hour now, trying to compose what should have been a simple letter of condolences, only that she had been hit by the worst case of writer's block ever to afflict her in a long while.

She softly pounded a fist on the edge of her desk as her glazed eyes beheld the screen slowly melting as she lost focus. What a joke this was turning out to be. She had intended to reach out and contact several other of her fellow representatives to go over a few new talking points for tomorrow, but it seemed like this letter would be taking up the rest of her night as she fought to finish it. The prompt for the memo she was writing now was simple, a relatively standard affair: write a letter to the mother of a young soldier who had been recently killed in combat as a form of consolation, edit it so that it was only a page long, and send it off. An easy effort for someone who had already written a few dozen of the damned things already. It was common courtesy for representatives to perform this affair for the relatives of people killed in combat that had come from their own district. But somehow, the act of typing this letter out was akin to hitting her head against the wall repeatedly. Her wit's end was fast approaching, Cirae figured.

The apartment she was in lacked a personal touch. The furnishings had all been previously provided by the building's maintainers. Bog-standard bedroom, dining/living room/office combination. Everything from the bedsheets to the dining utensils had all come with the place. The only thing that was not standard issue was the bathroom. It had a walk-in shower cradled with cold dark tiles—_that_ was something that Cirae certainly relished. She had not gone to the trouble of adding her own decorations to the place. Why would she? These were governmental quarters, anyway. She certainly was not going to impress anyone with the size of this place. The extra effort seemed, ultimately, needless.

It was all hopeless, she reasoned as she stared at the blank body of the letter, with only the addressee's name listed at the top. She felt so stupid just sitting here and letting nothing happen. It was like she had mentally showed up for work but none of her coworkers in her analytical brain had come in to share the load with her.

Still, this letter was not going to manifest itself together. Time for another unproductive go at it.

_Goddess, kill me now._

"_Dear Avarie N'Dutta_," Cirae read out loud as she began typing. "_I hope that you are well. It is with a heavy heart that I must—_"

"No, no, no!" Cirae muttered as she deleted most of what she wrote. "Somber affair, you idiot. Somber affair! No clichés!"

She tried again.

"_The liaison from the Council Defenders has just informed me that your daughter was slain gloriously on the—_"

That passage was deleted as well. A frustrated Cirae scratched at her scalp, gritting her teeth as she tried to wrap her brain about the right number of words to use. As much as Cirae would have loved to use a template to construct the body of this letter, it was an unwritten rule that all letters for sending condolences had to be unique in their own way. Boilerplate messages would be seen as a sign of laziness or carelessness on her part, unforgiving to the men and women willing to give their lives for their government. She had to give them the respect they deserved.

"_I write to you, aggrieved, to have heard of the loss of your daughter on the shores of Manhattan, fighting to preserve the cause she believed in. Her teammates called her an exceptional soldier, one who had an effusively positive attitude and a wonderful friend. Many called her the 'heart and soul' of their squad."_

Oh boy. Now she was reaching.

Cirae had the dossier of the soldier in question upon her desk. The deceased, a young asari, not even a hundred years old, had been a thoroughly unexceptional soldier. There was nothing in the files remotely pointing to the fact if she had been well liked or not. Cirae was going to keep that passage in her letter anyway. Studies had shown that lines like that had a better effect with the loved ones grieving for the people they lost, even if there was little truth to them at all.

The soldier she was writing about had died an unremarkable death. Unceremonious, one could even call it. A victim of friendly fire from a comrade with a twitchy trigger finger right after her squad had unloaded onto the battlefield. A round had gone right into the back of her head, the top of her skull having been completely blown off. She probably never had time to fire her weapon once. Yet another example to add to the ever-growing list of wasteful casualties these skirmishes with the PMCs had incurred. Useless efforts, every one of them. And the Council was just throwing bodies into the mix to do nothing but die.

She ran her fingers down her face, pulling at her lower eyelids to signify her stress as she scrambled into the endless gray matter of her brain for a string of words that would combine to form a sufficient enough notice. This was interrupted, unfortunately, with the arrival of an electronic message, the announcement of which had appeared in the lower right corner of the screen.

Cirae checked the sender's address. It was from the leader of the Council Committee on Military Oversight, a turian representative by the name of Xrexis. Instantly, she perked right up. She had been lobbying Xrexis for months about pursuing one of the most recently vacated seats on the panel. The CCMO was a very competitive committee to be placed upon—its broad jurisdiction and authority within the legislature made it a powerful and influential panel, one of the most important of the committees within the Council itself. She tapped upon the link and read the first few lines of the message with excited eyes.

The luster from those eyes soon faded with the more that she read.

_Dear Representative Idetha,  
We regret to inform you that you did not manage to meet the necessary criteria in order to proceed further for potential selection to the Council Committee on Military Oversight.  
As you know, all potential members submit assignment slates that are required to be approved by a sponsor already on an existing committee..._

Cirae closed the message with a frustrated slap to her keypad. This had Irissa's fingerprints all over it. That bitch was certainly petty enough to influence other representatives to steer clear of her applications, forcing this outcome to occur in the very end. It was inevitable, Cirae supposed, but it was all part of a platform that looked to be insurmountable. This was the old guard sending her a message: fall in line and keep your mouth shut.

Now thoroughly discouraged from writing anything at all, Cirae closed all of her applications and cracked open the whisky bottle at her desk. She poured herself a hearty helping and took a good swallow of the amber liquid, feeling the bite of the alcohol at the back of her throat, tasting dry wood and ash wafting along her tongue. She had a fondness for human liquor more so than her own people's. The concoctions derived from humans tended to be a little more rough-and-tumble, a more aggressive style of getting drunk. They had harsh flavors, but complex aftertastes, making them an acquired but rewarding addition to the palate. Whisky was a particular favorite of Cirae's and she soon downed a quarter of the drink in no time.

As she settled more and more into drunkenness, Cirae soon began to grow slightly complacent with the goings-on of her station. It did not change the fact that she was a low-tier government official, doomed to probably reside in the lower rungs for the rest of her days. Wouldn't that be something to see? A matriarch without any respect. If it were not for her damnable proclivity to take the moral position, her failure to "play the game" so to speak, she probably would have achieved so much more in all of her departments. She would have made colonel. She could be on the CCMO, performing her just duty as a representative to her people and actually making a damn effort to hold her own government accountable for its actions!

Her face scrunched up and scowled as if molded with clay. She clenched the half-empty glass she had been holding the whole time. Missed opportunities, one after the other. The value of hindsight turned into a negative resource for her.

She just could not follow the imposed decorum. She would not betray her ideals to serve someone else's purposes. It was what had gotten her into trouble for such a long time.

It had all started with that damned beacon.

_She had returned to her commanding officer right after her team had finished their reconnoiter of the Athame temple. It was easy to recall each individual detail of that day—the sun had been particularly bright, little to no breeze brushed her face, and legions of construction and military ships were rising up and down all over the city like a gigantic colony of insects working together to rebuild the damage from the war. The commanding officer, a major, had been standing at the top of a tall staircase that greeted a local legislative building. Cirae had been panting heavily by the time she had ascended the steps, the muscles in her calves cramping rather badly._

_There must have been a look of pure shock upon Cirae's face, because once she reached the major's position, the elder woman had frowned upon taking sight of her. Or perhaps that had just been her general exhaustion. The frown itself subsided into a thin line as the major must have remembered to keep her emotions in check, considering the political implications she was now dancing with._

"_Lieutenant," the major had nodded by the way of greeting. "Your scouting mission?"_

"_Completed," Cirae had said._

"_The temple?"_

"_Barely holding together."_

"_And the items inside?"_

_Cirae remembered that she had suppressed the hard urge to make a twitch of disgust at this moment. "Inoperable, major."_

_The major took all this in and gave another subtle nod of affirmation. "I see. A pity." She then had turned away—a nonverbal dismissal, but Cirae kept standing her ground._

"_How long did we have it in there?" she called to the major's back, the orange sky starting to turn purple as the sun crested low through the shattered buildings._

_Her commanding officer whipped around, the first quick action she had taken so far. "You need to watch your tone, Lieutenant."_

_It was too late to suppress herself, most unfortunately. "I know what that object was. In the temple… the military protection… all of it. How long was it there?"_

"_Drop this line of questioning now, Idetha. It's for your own good that you stay silent."_

_But anger had taken root within the asari. She strode forward, hands clenched in a shaking rage as the complexities of the revelations she had just uncovered were just about to open themselves up to Cirae, presenting a possibility that she so dearly wanted to proclaim was a lie. That her people had betrayed everyone._

"_Silent? The same way that everyone else remained silent?" Cirae had retorted with venom, causing the major to halt in place as she had, once again, attempted to disengage. "What was in that temple… was it the reason the Reapers came to Thessia? Was it the reason they came here at all? We stayed silent… about _that_… for goddess knows how long. Or can you explain why we kept, all for ourselves, a Prothean beac—"_

_The major moved to grab at the front straps of Cirae's armor, jerking her where she stood. The elder asari's face was horrifyingly blank, only a few miniscule jitters at the edge of her mouth conveying her utter disdain for the woman she now thrashed around._

"_Lieutenant," the major had hissed, "if you so much as utter another word about what was in that temple, I swear to you that I will have you shot."_

_The threat was so blatant and so fiercely delivered that it had the intended effect of stunning Cirae into silence._

_The major continued in her growling. "Now I know that you have misgivings about what your team saw in there. I understand it. But this is not something that you or I have any control over anymore. This is something we need to keep quiet about. This is perhaps the most fragile we've ever been, Idetha. If we start asking questions now, all of us will find out that we still have a lot to lose that the Reapers had not yet managed to destroy. You need to realize that you are just as bound to my future just as I am bound to yours, and every other asari in this galaxy. We cannot let this come to light."_

_The major then released her grip on Cirae, only for her arms to be suddenly constricted in the embrace of two asari sentinel troopers, keeping her limbs spread while one had kicked her in the stomach, making her fold over with rabid coughs._

"_We will ensure your silence," the major had said to her as she was being dragged away. "We're only doing this for your own good, Idetha. The decisions of the past cannot be made to reflect us today. When you realize that fact instead of looking out only for yourself, this sorry period in your life will be concluded."_

The proceeding interrogation after that had been short and tense, but at least she had been treated civilly by her people. In the end, all they really wanted to hear was that she would keep her mouth shut about the beacon and in turn she would be compensated with financial or political incentives to have her mind set on task. It had worked too, because for all those years afterward she never made mention of the beacon to anyone. She took the money—begrudgingly so—and used it to help her forge a life after the war.

_And others took credit for exposing us for the frauds we are. Humans. It should have been an asari to inform everyone._

_It should have been me._

Despite her compliance and the fact that she had nothing to do with the leaks that had so thoroughly embarrassed her people, she was still being screwed over. She set aside her empty glass to a blank corner of the desk. Her people were sacrificing each other just to keep their heads afloat. It seemed like she was the only sane one left in the room—the old guard still clung to the "asari dominant" ideal that they were meant to be the bastions guiding this galaxy into a prosperous age, yet they refused to admit that all their momentum had petered out when they had betrayed the very rules that they themselves had set in place.

She could see the writing on the wall. Why couldn't everyone else?

Ripping her from her musings was the second blip that emanated from her holo-screen, causing her to jump, a tad startled. She had received another message. No sender address was listed. Suspicious, to be sure, but Cirae was drunk now and she was well past the point of caring. Might as well send in the tabloids, because Cirae Idetha was ready for her tell all!

No. She was not at that point yet. It would take quite a few more drinks to be at such a stage of blind stupidity. There was still lucidity left in her.

She opened the message.

To her surprise, the body of the missive was entirely blank and, for a moment, she wondered if someone was playing a prank on her. It was only when she looked closer at the message that she realized that it contained an attachment. She pulled up the document's contents and took a look.

It was a downloadable admittance tag, she discovered. People could upload these specific files onto their omni-tool and it would work as a key for any areas programmed to accept it. The Assembly's committees used them exclusively for their meetings—you had to have the right admittance tag registered to your tool in order to get inside a designated room.

Which begged the question: what was this particular tag for?

Rooting her way into the document's code, Cirae glanced through the various lines to try and find any clues. She soon found the item for the subject line. _DEPOSITION_S210_KA_CCA/Key112_ the file was named. Some of the items there were simple to decipher. DEPOSITION meant what it said, obviously. S210_KA were probably esoteric tagging codes. CCA was a reference, most likely, to the Committee of Council Authority, another one of the more powerful of the committees. And Key112 was probably the ID number of the key she had been mysteriously gifted.

So, someone had arranged for her to be aware of and attend some kind of deposition the CCA was holding. The attached time stamp indicated that this event was going to take place tomorrow evening. While she was not a member of the CCA, Cirae knew that committee members had the ability to invite "sponsors" to certain meetings. These sponsors could not speak at these gatherings, just listen. Almost as if she was attending such a thing on audit.

"Very, very weird," Cirae muttered out loud as she scratched her chin, intrigued at having a new puzzle to pore over.

This was very much happenstance, wasn't it? Being sent a tag when she had just been bemoaning her failure to get onto a committee? Questioning thin air was not going to get her anywhere, so she was now trying to figure out who would have bothered to send her this invitation when she knew she had little in the way of friends in the Assembly.

She spent a few minutes hunting all over the message's code for a return address, but the sender had masked their trail very carefully. They had used a proxy to beam the tag to her inbox—all that she could get was a string of nothing but gibberish as a username. Cirae came up with nothing but blanks as she tried to get a hint of this message's origins, more and more question marks filling her brain as she tried turning over this scenario over and over and over again.

_This really is bizarre._

The one thing, the only thing that she had managed to uncover by the end of the day, was a brief snippet encased in a comment line, embedded within a dense block of code. It had been placed there deliberately, knowing that Cirae would have found it due to her determination and resolve.

The message itself was direct, but its sheer existence was cryptic enough to keep Cirae solely fixated upon that one line for half an hour.

So many mysteries all beyond her comprehension.

The line contained only one word.

! - - - ATTEND- - - !

* * *

_Frigate: __Morningtide__  
Unknown Affiliation  
Psi Tophet System – Planetary Orbit Entered_

The tall aperture of the _Morningtide_, at least three stories high, allowed the only light to enter the great hall of the massive ship. Swirling blue and green colors from the oceans several miles below spilled into the room, the planetary luminescence being dashed across the curved and dark tiles that spread across the ground like a malevolent tumor, creeping ever forward.

The Cardinal stood in front of the window, silently watching the waters churn and the clouds rage upon the planet. A glistening cataract. Her spider-like form cast sinister shadows behind her as she involuntarily moved her four thin arms independently. Her expressionless face remained maddingly focused onto the empty world as she let the silence consume her.

Apart from a simple chair that faced the window, the great hall of the _Morningtide_ was completely bare. No light fixtures were allowed to paint the walls with delicate luminescence. The chair itself was stationed in the center of a wide dais, where long and elegant steps seemed to elicit powerful emotions to those that ascended its steps. Not just anyone could enter this room, though. That honor was reserved for a select few: those that the master of this ship bestowed his trust upon. As it was, the Cardinal was the only individual inhabiting this room at this moment. She only stood because she dared not touch the chair. _That_, she knew, was only meant for one.

Her insectoid "face" dimmed and warmed a sizzling blue as she continued to watch the planet's rotation. A cyborg such as herself had no such use anymore for such trivial tics. There was barely anything about her construction that resembled any living being in this galaxy. The bizarre shapes that made up her optics were utterly incomprehensible to organic eyes. Her creator apparently had not been concerned with an ergonomic form for her to use. The muted mass effect generators upon her back were at low power—she was standing on her stilt-like legs—emitting a gentle thrum in the eerie darkness.

The Cardinal's audio receptors then picked up a slight hissing noise as the singular door to the hall opened. She activated her generators, lifting her a foot off the ground, and slowly rotated to face the new arrival as slow and heavy footsteps clacked their way across the tiles, the wearer being cloaked by the perpetual shadow the room naturally possessed.

For several seconds, the sound of boots on the floor increased in volume while their owner remained hidden from view. The Cardinal floated just in front of the window, awaiting the powerful presence that was in such close proximity.

Then, ever so gradually, the faint wisp of a cloak fluttered into view… then dark boots coated in faintly shining armor… then a pristine chestplate… and finally a silver mask.

The shadows continued to cling to Aleph as he ascended the slight staircase, an object nestled in an arm. Tendrils of darkness seemed to rope from his body as the planetary light floated upon his form, existing in the luminary purgatory where both sides seemed to be too afraid to venture. He moved past the Cardinal, who lowered her body and dipped her head in benevolent deference.

But as Aleph approached, the Cardinal could see that her master was dripping with water. It dribbled down his cloak, beaded upon his helmet. Her sensors told her that it was seawater. From the oceans upon the planet, perhaps? She noted that, in the wake of Aleph's path, he left a trail of puddles behind. He did not seem to care, or even notice that he was soaked.

"My lord…" she whispered, the delicateness of her voice taking on a scratchy affect from her vocabulator. She spoke the words with such devotion… with such love… that the act of even letting them flow from her felt like an exertion.

Aleph did not address her right away. Instead, he too began solemnly looking out towards the world as the _Morningtide_ hung over it almost tauntingly. The silence he exuded seemed to vacuum all other background noises that had penetrated the room's interior. The object he clutched was half hidden by his cloak as it was pressed tightly against his chest. The tall being did not so much as glance at the Cardinal, his massive frame seemingly blotting out all light from the window.

The Cardinal thought about attempting to address her master again. But she knew that Aleph would respond in his own time. He had not been one for titles. He had never forced anyone to call him "lord" nor had he ever broached the topic. The idea of calling him that had just come naturally to the Cardinal. For the entirety of her existence, bestowing her allegiance to the man who had been responsible for her creation was not simply enough, she felt. There had to be a proper way to address him that commanded the totality of his respect. Thus, she called him "lord" and yet, he never objected.

As she continued to wait for his voice… his glorious voice, the void within the Cardinal continued to rip at her, rending her entirely piecemeal. When he spoke, she listened. She would always listen. She _had_ always listened. She had done anything and everything to show him that she was his loyal servant, as natural of an extension of himself as he could possibly imagine. But he had never acknowledged this. He always seemed to ignore her devotion. The Cardinal knew that Aleph recognized all of the efforts she made to please him, and yet she could not reach him.

Whatever love she could grant unto Aleph, whatever she had left in the remains of her organs left in this accursed body, whatever she could use to show him her steadfast faithfulness, it would all be unrequited.

After several minutes had passed, with the steady dripping noise of water flowing off of Aleph's body while he calmly gazed to the world so close by, the Cardinal tenderly tried again. "Was your test… a success, my lord?"

Now the tortured glow of Aleph's helmet rotated to face her, his expression unreadable. Pools of radiative fear spiked throughout the remnants of the Cardinal's brain, unnerved to the core as his glorious gaze alternated between malevolence and a cherished concern.

Slowly, he raised the object from behind his cloak and turned back to set it on the chair. It made a heavy yet hollow thump—like thick glass set upon sturdy rock. He moved away to let the Cardinal see. It was perfectly spherical, opalescent and dancing with hidden light. It shimmered as its surface flowed with subtle waves. It stood up upon the chair, seemingly radiating a tiny glow, but there was an odd emptiness about it. A cavity, blank and hollow, but not hungry, felt like it had opened within the very fabric of the sphere. The Cardinal could not place it, but it was simple to imagine that this sphere had once possessed a kind of energy indecipherable to a feeble mind. But that energy had now fled the vessel, now destined to be forgotten.

Now only a relic, the sphere could only relegate itself to the doomed silence. Empty and simple, its luster slowly died as it sat out in the open.

"**My journey,"** Aleph finally spoke as he turned away from the chair to look upon the new world he had left behind, **"yielded results both expected… and hoped."**

"Glory to you, my lord Aleph," the Cardinal whispered, the edges of her thin frame shaking. "Glory to you!"

Folding his hands behind his back, Aleph resumed staring out at the window, confident in his achievements, knowingly damning those in his company to his pensive silence.

* * *

**A/N: More and more pieces of the puzzle are being laid out here. After an explosive start to this story, I'm going about at a relatively slower pace. I guess I've picked up some habits from RedCenturionG on how to weave multiple storylines, considering the fact that we now have 4 plot threads to focus on. Relax, Roahn will be center stage for the next chapter. She's still the heart and soul of this series - we'll be with her the entire way.**

**Playlist:**

**Hand Exercise/Awaken from Dream**  
**The Monza Grid**  
**Hans Zimmer, Jasha Klebe, Mel Wesson, and Martin Tillman**  
**Rush (Complete Score - UNRELEASED)**

**The Cardinal's Master**  
**Stahl Arms**  
**Lorn**  
**Killzone: Shadowfall (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	8. Chapter 8: Growing Shadow

_Trying to romance two people at once? Nice try, but polygamy is still not yet commonplace in this galaxy. The Normandy is not a harem. Monogamous relationships only!_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

_Menhir__  
Hangar Bay_

The end of the rifle exploded with combustion light, scoria ash, and a thundering crash as the tri-burst trigger pull shredded the air with bullets. The butt of the rifle, jammed firmly into Roahn's shoulder, knocked back against her, as if it was trying to tip her over. The quarian kept her stance planted, her eyes narrowed, and her trigger finger light as she gave little pause between her shots, firing again and again. The tip of her finger gently rested upon the trigger as she aimed down the firing lane—she still remembered her father's lesson to her, after all these years, on how to properly fire any weapon.

_All that needs to move is your finger._

Roahn's prosthetic hand gripped the weapon at the bottom handrail just below the front end of the barrel. Sensors in her fingers transmitted information to her brain, giving her an inkling of how much force she was currently exerting in her grip. Right now, it seemed like she was handling the weapon rather well and keeping it held in place nicely, reducing the recoil by quite a bit. The polymer of the rifle creaked slightly, as if agitated by the firm hold imparted upon it.

Many meters across the bay, a singular holographic square projected a bright blue target that was already pockmarked by yellow hit targets. The grouping was nice and clustered near the center—good control of focused aim. Roahn had been at this for a bit, judging from the amount of bullets detected on the light face.

To Roahn's satisfaction, the _Menhir_ came with the ability to transform part of its hangar bay into a makeshift gun range. Targets of any shape and size could be blipped into existence with just the flip of a switch. This would certainly be a useful resource to utilize between missions—it would keep everyone's skills fresh. Roahn juggled a clip in her hand before she slotted into the underside of the weapon, where the feed was. All of the ammunition that Roahn had been using were practice rounds. They dissipated into the air harmlessly after traversing a preprogrammed range, well before the edge of the bay acted as a hard terminus. It certainly would not do if Roahn were to fire live rounds into the side of her new spaceship before they had even taken off. That would certainly reflect poorly on her progress report.

Roahn continued to fire the rifle, taking a few pauses to eject spent thermal clips, until the holographic target was painted nearly yellow near the center. She did not savor the moment to congratulate herself on her marksmanship, because her mind was already set onto the next task. The rifle was set down on a nearby table containing a mess of discarded parts, gun oil canisters, towels, cleaning tools, thermal clip boxes, and an assortment of various firearms. She picked up a Carnifex pistol, inserted a few clips, twirled the weapon once upon her limber finger, and reset the target downrange to have a fresh face. Then, she lined herself up, both hands upon the pistol grip, and readied for another go.

She rested her right thumb atop her left. There was a twitch in Roahn's mind as the prosthesis picked up the contact. How odd. She could _see_ where her digit was touching but the sensation was not at all comparable to the real thing.

Roahn's eyes furrowed behind the glass of her mask. Momentarily she became purposeless. Lost.

The fleeting sensation left her in a heartbeat. Resolve steeled her gaze once more. She inhaled.

Her hand was a cold presence against the enviro-suit that encased her flesh. Her prosthetic fingers at the base of the gun acted as a resting position for Roahn's right hand to squeeze against while keeping both thumbs nestled together, pointing down the barrel towards the target far away. Her right finger scraped down the side of the gun until it found the comfortable square fit of the trigger. Lightly testing its pull, she spent a few seconds aiming down the sights before she felt comfortable enough to give the trigger a tiny yank.

More light, smoke, and sound. The pistol kicked upwards in a scalding jerk, but Roahn was easily able to catch the recoil with both hands. There was a slight twinge, however, as Roahn detected a hint of slowness in her limb. A blink. The grip slipped a bit in her hands but she was quickly able to orient herself back to a proper position. She kept a glaring eye on the limb, though, as she continued in her exercises in painting the holograms with her bullet marks.

Roahn built up her routine in completely decimating her targets with her weapon of choice throughout the next hour, not so much of a word coming from her vocabulator as she preferred to let her actions speak for themselves right now. She would empty the clips from all the firearms she handled—pistols, rifles, shotguns, anything of any make she could get her hands on—survey her work, determined which aspects she would need improvement on, and work at correcting them in the next beat. There was a cold and unflinching precision with which she approached this sort of work. There was no joy to be glimpsed in the bare shine of her eyes. This was business, plain and simple.

Occasionally, between weapon changes, Roahn would devote a few minutes towards her prosthesis. She fiddled with some of its outer gadgetry, performing light calibrations to make each individual movement she made with it as smooth as an organic limb. A slight drag could still be discerned at the very edges of her consciousness when she reached out to pull at her fingers, to get them to even twitch in a particular direction. _Drag_. Input lag, she remembered. The miniscule delay in translating her brain signals into actual limb movement between the two mediums.

She scowled as she clenched a fist so hard that her limb began to quake. Not good enough. It was never going to be good enough.

Eventually, Roahn flicked off the shooting range component of the hologram suite and instead settled onto a new module. She then strode into the center of the hangar bay, leaving all the guns behind (unloaded with safeties on). No kid gloves this time. Rotating her arms and flexing her fingers, she widened her feet so that they were square with her shoulders. She stared straight out towards what appeared to be an empty and bare wall before she slowly brought her right foot back and brought up her prosthetic arm, making it parallel to the ground.

With a determined gaze, Roahn took a breath before tightening her fist. Metal closed in on itself, hydraulics hissing in protest.

There was a thrum and an eager snapping of light as it closed around her arm. Hard orange light sprung from thin air in a cloud of sparks and heat. The omni-tool solidified in less than a second, coalescing forward to form a sharp and thin point before it extended a meter in front of her arm, parting existence with a whisper.

"Not bad," Roahn whispered as she made precise little jabs with the omni-sword. The installed chipset worked! It felt like she was wielding a feather upon her arm, for the bladed weapon had no weight at all. Most software for omni-tools could not sustain weaponry such as this for very long as they were quite a drain on regular armor batteries. The more surface area that was projected, the more power to the tool that was needed, so the rule of thumb went. Combat omni-tools ran off the batteries implanted within armor, which already had several dozen systems they already needed to devote power to, which made long-term usage of the omni-tools extremely limited. But, as Sam had previously mentioned to her when he had been fitting her with her new arm, the prosthesis had the ability to draw power from its internal battery directly to her omni-tool, giving it an overcharge that put her in a league well above a PMC foot soldier.

Better watch out. This quarian had barbs.

Directly across from her, a crude representation of a humanoid figure, completely featureless, appeared over the floor, shortening to her height. The holographic opponent, called forth by Roahn itself, then took on the mimicked appearance of an ancient quarian knight, with intricate armor completely clouding their features and shielding their body. In their hands, they gripped a meteorite sword, polished to a high sheen. Roahn gave a tight grin as she slowly brought the point of her own blade forth. The hologram tipped its own in respect. The two blades met with a frantic sizzle before they parted. A salute.

Now they could begin.

Patiently, Roahn sidestepped across the bay, sizing her opponent up. She was unafraid as the hologram itself could not hurt her—this was yet another training exercise installed in the _Menhir's_ database. With this dueling software, she had the ability to face off against some of the finest duelers in the galaxy, their combat styles having been analyzed and programmed into a packaged suite. With the tips of her fingers, Roahn was able to square off against any fighter of varying styles and abilities. The software even included various figures from works of fiction, though Roahn was not all that interested in suspending her disbelief all that much at the moment.

Still holding her sword parallel, Roahn edged forward a half-step. The tips of their swords spat sparks as their points briefly collided in tiny intervals. Neither of them made the first real move yet. There was something to be said for patience, as it really was a virtue to consider in combat. Planning out an entire series of moves in one's mind was an integral part of dueling. Just wandering into a fight and slashing about, hoping to cleave off a limb in the middle of a complicated twirl was unrealistic and a dangerous habit. Real fights between two swordsmen were not marked by heavy and aggressive chops, but by meticulous preparation and accurate movements down to the millimeter.

Roahn then halted in her sidestepping, a drop of sweat tricking down the ridge of her nose. The holographic knight halted as well, its form shifting very realistically as it appeared to mimic her movements.

Both froze in place, each balanced upon the razor's edge of awareness. Roahn waited for the opportune moment to reveal itself. Attack or defend? It all depended on the timing. Attacking potentially opened her up to be countered if she was not careful. Defending could result in her losing all her momentum in the fight, conversely. There was a delicate duel occurring within her own mind, the other half of the coin. Not only does one wrestle with their opponent in these fights, they wrestle with their own self.

And sometimes the fight is won before the first blow is even delivered.

With little fanfare, Roahn stutter-stepped before she lunged forward, the tip of her omni-sword carving through the air. The hologram jumped out of the way before chopping its own blade down onto hers, a counterattack. Now that she was open to attack, her opponent took a quick swipe at her neck, but Roahn had anticipated this and rolled underneath the blade easily. Both out of range, the two combatants regained their stances afterward and stilled their movements once again, readying themselves for the next strike.

Now it was the hologram's turn to move first. It waved its own weapon in a diagonal strike, but Roahn threw her sword up to block the blow. There was a hammering effect upon her limbs as she felt the weight of the attack slam her towards the ground, but she did not give in. Instead, she pushed _back_ against the clash of blades and made a long cut towards the abdomen of the knight, hoping to spill his guts. The knight jumped backwards, evading the deadly blow, and the two took the next grace period with relief.

Roahn fell still, calf muscles already beginning to ache, as she frantically mapped out her next series of moves in her head. She readjusted her orientation, sucking in a needed breath, before the next set was to begin.

The knight then charged at her this time, sword blurring in quick and deadly arcs. Roahn evaded the first blow, then blocked the next two, her angles continually on point.

But the hologram then made a surprise lunge toward her side. Roahn hastily moved to block, but her arm, once again, seemed slow to respond. She managed to bring her sword down just in time, but not before the tip of her opponent's blade scraped at her thigh. She grunted as an electric tingle radiated from the afflicted area and stumbled back to disengage. Flexing her fingers forcefully, Roahn grimaced as she waited for the numbness to dissipate before a vile look overcame her.

Time to end this.

With a harrowing shout, she split the air asunder as she delivered three quick jabs towards her opponent, her prosthesis humming as its hydraulics surged power forth into her every movement. The hologram blocked the first strike, but not the other two. Roahn's first hit impaled the knight's shoulder, causing it to flinch away. Her next entered its knee, making it stumble to the ground. The hologram dropped its sword as it uttered a soundless cry, hands now splayed out onto the floor.

The knight bent its head in mercy, but this was not a game that could be won through acts of compassion. Roahn knew she would never make such a mistake for the rest of her life.

She clasped her hand onto her left wrist before she brought the omni-sword down for one last fearsome blow. The blade became a curve of light as it entered and exited through the knight's neck in less than a second, decapitating it with a hiss. The body hit the ground and laid there for a few moments before the program deactivated itself with a burst of static, concluding the module.

Roahn stood above the empty space where she had just vanquished her opponent, omni-tool still radiating heat and sparks, panting slightly. She finally deactivated the weapon and stared at her left arm, clenching her fingers with a rightful determination. Her visor obscured the bare appreciation she would otherwise be nakedly able to display, somewhat rejuvenated at the confirmation that her abilities were very much still in play.

"Not bad at all," a voice came from near the elevator bay. Roahn whipped around to find Garrus slowly walking her way, that damnable eyepiece still in place upon his head. She had been attracting a gathering, evidentially. Suddenly she felt rather self-conscious.

She straightened and brushed herself off with a shaky grin. "Watching long?"

"Just caught the last part," Garrus admitted. "Didn't want to disturb you until you'd finished."

Roahn laughed as she passed Garrus, heading back to the gun table. She began to clean up the mess she had left upon the surface as she rearranged the items into their respective containers. "I can handle an audience. Nothing I'm not used to."

"If you say so. You looked like you were doing well out there."

"Not well enough," Roahn murmured as she brought a hand to her thigh, where the hologram's sword had grazed her. The point where she had been hit did not hurt, but there was a lingering numbness that the holographic weaponry had inflicted upon her. Her skin underneath her enviro-suit might be a little reddened for at least another hour, but by the end of the day there would be no evidence that she had been hit at all.

Garrus shrugged. "Still, better than I could manage. Never learned to fight with a long blade, myself. Always preferred to keep things at a distance. Your father teach you that stuff?"

"He did, actually," Roahn nodded as her hands simultaneously worked to disassemble one of the Carnifex pistols. "Though he probably wouldn't have entertained the idea if I hadn't prodded him so much to be taught."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, mom was a big fan of human vids and she left several of them around the house. Many were these old-fashioned films, some a couple centuries old, that were about dashing knights and elegant princesses, with adventure and romance abound. Oh, and there was usually a big swordfight at the end of these movies. I was always a fan of the swordfights, so I kept asking dad to teach me what he knew, because he'd had training. For the longest time, his response was, '_Maybe until you're older, dear_,' but that didn't stop me from asking all the time. When I finally turned eleven, I guess I finally wore him down because he relented and gave me a combat suite and a virtual trainer to start practicing with. He oversaw everything, making sure I learned the right way." She laughed ruefully as she shook her head, her hands deftly cracking open the ammo case to the pistol so she could extract the main firing block. "He was an unforgiving teacher, but fair. Most stubborn man I've ever known. He just wanted to make sure that I was prepared. Prepared for anything."

She then set the pieces of the weapon aside so that she could bend down and lay her prosthesis upon the table. With a special tool, she deftly undid one of the panels on her arm close to her elbow and pried it away after unscrewing the fasteners that held it in place. Within her arm, the inner workings of a myriad of components were now exposed, each one pristine and shining with a glistening polish. The sensitive mechanics twitched to her every move, maneuvering to mimic her organic patterns accurately. Garrus caught himself staring.

"It's all right," Roahn assured him, noticing his look of concern. "You get used to it. Having this for an arm, I mean."

"I have to admit," Garrus coughed, "this isn't something I have any experience with. It's disconcerting, from my perspective. What are you trying to do?"

"My reaction time is still a little stunted," Roahn explained as she now used a set of pliers to move a particular piston back and forth within her arm, causing her middle finger to move up and down like a puppeteer was jerking upon it. Were it not made of metal, the sight of Roahn fiddling around within her arm would be rather macabre indeed. "It's all part of the input lag between me and my prosthesis. I can't make this thing move as quickly as I normally could. Some sort of disconnect between translating the signals from my brain to the arm."

"Is it anything that is easily fixable?"

"Sam said that I probably won't ever get it back up to a hundred percent efficiency," Roahn said as she made one final adjustment before she set the tool down. "But that doesn't mean that I can't try."

Roahn then took the panel and popped it back into place upon her arm, the matte silver effortlessly blending into the rest of the prosthesis. She flexed her hand for emphasis and rose back up, eyes lidded in mirth.

"I'm getting there," she said. "Perhaps one day."

Her fingers grouped back up into a fist, soon encapsulated by the blazing orange of the sword that rose up towards the sky, radiating a heatless light. Garrus followed the path of the blade, entranced, before Roahn deactivated it after silently pronouncing herself fit.

"I know that it probably seems a bit counter-intuitive for a quarian to have a sword," she explained, noting her captain's look, "but it's a handy weapon when your back's to the wall."

"I was thinking," Garrus said, "isn't it a bit too easy for your foe to just open up your suit with an errant cut and just walk away, leaving you to die from an allergic reaction? Knives and enviro-suits don't tend to mix well."

"That might have been the case several years ago, but the vaccines we receive today combat against the worst of that. We can still fight like mad even when we have a suit breach, so fighting with a blade is not entirely showboating in this day and age. That isn't to say that I'm relishing the prospect of having to go through the lengthy recovery period. Ever been completely debilitated from a full-body allergic reaction before? I have, and it's not fun."

"I'll make an opinion on that when the opportunity arrives for you to demonstrate your command of the craft," Garrus dipped his head. "But if you can wield a blade as well as you can shoot a gun, I'd be placing the bets wholeheartedly in your favor."

"Wait…" Roahn narrowed her eyes. "You said you weren't watching me very long. How'd you know that I'm a decent shot-?"

Garrus just raised a finger and Roahn followed the indicated direction until she saw what he was pointing at. Tiny glass cylinders embedded in the nooks and crannies of the bay, always watching, always in the shadows.

"Cameras," Garrus bumped the ridges that constituted his eyebrows. "Makes it so that I don't have to ask any questions on where my crew is located."

"Ah," Roahn nodded.

"Speaking of," Garrus stepped closer to Roahn, spine straightening ever so slightly. "They're here."

Roahn's ears perked up and her heartbeat escalated a tad.

"Umbra's all together?

"Got them all in the comm room, waiting for our first briefing as a team," Garrus said. "Figured I might collect our XO, bring you up to meet everyone."

Roahn did not respond right away, taking in the pregnant pause for full effect. Then, wordlessly, she rapidly began reconstructing the Carnifex pistol she had completely dismantled on the bench and put it all back together in less than ten seconds. She racked the slide, flicked the safety on and off, and finally twirled it upon a finger before she clipped it onto the magnetic holster at her side. She was ready.

"Hard to believe," Roahn said as she joined Garrus in step towards the elevator. "One would think that someone would have acted on your idea for this kind of team a long time ago."

"Well, it was always in the cards," Garrus said as the two of them stepped into the lift and he hit the level for the CIC. "But it was missing one key ingredient until now."

"Which was?"

Garrus looked down at Roahn kindly before murmuring, "_'No Shepard without Vakarian._'"

* * *

According to Garrus, the comm room of the _Menhir_ had been replicated almost exactly from the _Normandy_ SR-1. Located right behind the CIC, it was a cinch making it over there as the elevator bay spat them out right in front of the door they needed to access in the first place.

The comm room first greeted Roahn with a corridor about a few meters long before terminating at an oval-shaped endpoint. A similarly-shaped table was parked in the middle, rimmed with a variety of chairs. Most of the chairs had been filled and Roahn felt rather self-conscious as several pairs of eyes naturally made their way towards her, seeking to peer at the new entrants.

Right away, she noticed her father sitting off in the corner, not at the table. He gave her a tiny smile followed by a nod of greeting. A subtle acknowledgement. He crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair, a pensive expression on his face. All deliberate motions on his part—this was his way of recognizing that this was going to be Roahn's show to handle. He would not provide any input unless asked directly.

Roahn was grateful for the swell of support she got from him. It made her feel more at ease as she approached the table.

Urdnot Grunt sat at the chair closest to the door—it was hard to not notice the krogan's particularly large frame. A rocky hide coupled with the enormous armor he wore made the already formidable alien look ten times as menacing. Ice-blue irises and slit pupils reflected a sinister ambition. Roahn was not nervous as she came up to the krogan—Grunt was fastidiously loyal to the family and would not be capable of harming a fly if ordered.

Although, if Grunt _was_ ordered to harm someone, a mop and a bucket would be required to soak up the remains of whomever was unfortunate enough to be trapped in the krogan's warpath.

Liara T'Soni sat next to Grunt, acting as a calming force at the table. The asari naturally exuded a presence that was composed and precise—qualities befitting one who was over a hundred years old, despite the fact that she was considered young for her race. An old soul, Liara had traded the world of information brokering after the war to return to her strongest passion: archeology. She had been acting as a professor at a university on Thessia for the past few years and had been particularly good at it too. She was a noted author, an experienced tactician, and a close friend to her father. Roahn had even suspected, when she got older, that Liara had most likely had a crush on Shepard at one point, but she knew that she would never get either one of them to admit it.

The asari stood to greet Roahn, her smooth face parting as she smiled. Liara wore a stylish outfit with a flowing half-cloak, a red-and-and black light combat outfit that encased her from her toes to her fingertips. The two met and briefly embraced, elated to be in each other's presence again. Midway through the hug, a reoccurring thought hit Roahn of just how odd it was to consider that, maturity-wise, they were at the same biological stages of their lives despite the asari having a least a hundred years on the quarian.

"Look at you," Liara said, eyes welling with pride. "I blink my eyes and you go from being such a tiny little thing and… now you're a grown woman. Amazing. Absolutely amazing."

"Whereas I blink my eyes," Roahn responded, "and you haven't changed at all."

Liara's grin grew slightly sheepish and she briefly looked away. "If only I had a little more time for these moments. They go by too quickly for me to appreciate."

"If it makes you feel any better, I find myself thinking that exact same thing."

While Liara and Roahn continued to converse, Garrus made his way around the table, stopping briefly behind Sam McLeod's chair. The bearded human, bleary-eyed, was hunched over a cup of piping liquid, bitter spirals of steam plunging their way upward.

"Wake up, sunshine," Garrus drawled as he smacked the man hard on the back, causing Sam to spill some of his drink.

"My Americano, you bastard!" Sam bemoaned.

"I probably did you a favor," Garrus said as he wrinkled his nose. "Doesn't smell all that appetizing, anyway."

"It's _coffee, _you dextro buffoon. It's _supposed_ to smell like this!"

Breaking off from Liara, Roahn resumed her circuit of the room, heading towards a spot that placed her between the table and the main vidscreen upon the far end of the room. As she walked, she finally noticed one of the newer members of the team sitting a bit further away from everyone else, a painfully shy look upon their face.

Korridon Sidonis was an enigma to Roahn. She had never met the man before and the brief photographs she had seen of him had not been enough to give her a complete picture. Korridon was a bit short for a turian—either that, or he was slouching in his seat—and he appeared to have a habit of drawing himself in close within his chair. His carapace was a dark mottled brown, the color of dirtied copper. Burnt orange facepaint graced his features in careful licks, hints of a dying sun scratching his face before disappearing over the horizon. His emerald green eyes carried sandy yellow speckles, reminding Roahn of impure minerals. He was dressed in what constituted a military casual style: an unmarked uniform too prim and proper for a night upon the town. Despite being close in age, Roahn could tell that he was considerably more nervous than she was. Hell, she practically had ice water in her veins, for comparison.

The turian intrigued her. Roahn made a note to talk with him the next chance she got.

The final person that completed the circle around the table was like a beacon in the corner of her eye. She had spotted her the second she entered the room, though she had fought very hard to keep her consciousness from fully appraising her until now. Roahn slowly treaded her way around the woman sitting in the chair, making note of the familiar head of fire-red hair tied up in a ponytail as she passed her by. Roahn edged her gaze as she finally made it to the front and was greeted by the answering smirk from the human as both of them finally locked eyes.

_Hardly anything's changed._

Skye Lorne. The years had clearly been to her benefit. She looked more angular. Poised. Sanguine. Yet Roahn could detect a shrewd brashness buried underneath the veneer. Her warm brown eyes billowed attention and focus, a desirable place to reside. Even the way she dressed—functional shirt and pants—reflected her impetuous charm; she sat leaning forward, almost as if she was preparing to reach out and lunge at Roahn the way a wild predator would. The human was used to having things her way. It was just who she was. Roahn knew that better than anyone.

Roahn and Skye were motionless as they took in the other. It was only seconds in real time, but it might as well have been an eternity to the quarian. There had been a good reason why it had been so long since she had laid eyes on Skye. Now that the human was here, Roahn was openly questioning her decision while at the same time lambasting herself for even harboring doubts at all. The hidden war broiled inside Roahn, but Skye seemed to detect it all the same, for her smile broadened, like she had just been privy to a deadly secret.

Roahn had to look away, the very action drawing a gasp. _Keelah, she had forgotten_. Skye's mere presence elicited such intensity and vividness as her memories drew forth. The smell of her hair. The feel of her skin. The warmth of her mouth.

The quarian wished she had something to lean on as she felt herself wobble helplessly. It felt like a malignant pocket of rot had settled just behind her heart, just so that with every beat, she was slowly impaling herself.

_No_. Roahn slammed her eyelids shut before opening them in a slow blink, her posture rising simultaneously. This time, things would be different. She was no longer an awe-struck recruit in the Defenders. She was a commander of what would be the most formidable team of warriors since her father's own crew. The past was the past—she could accept that and she would make damn sure that Skye would as well. They were both adults, they knew what the stakes were. They were mature enough to realize that whatever threads they thought tied them together from their former relationship had to have been completely shed at this point. Cordiality was to be the new norm that existed between them.

So why did she feel so melancholy every time she made a glance at the human?

_Oh, Roahn. What have you done?_

She managed to shed her thoughts just as Garrus came up to take his spot before the table, positioned as the natural focal locus so that everyone could see him. Roahn sidestepped a bit closer to the turian, folding her hands behind her back so that she appeared at least somewhat presentable. She felt she needed to look the part that befitted an XO.

Garrus shifted his weight from foot to foot as he took varied glances around the room, taking them all in. He eyed Shepard off in the corner just a bit longer, finding a relatively eager look upon the human's face. A flash of jocundity filled Garrus' eyes and he sighed, appreciating this last moment of silence before he would next speak and therefore change lives in the process.

"For a few years," he began, voice steady and steeled, "I was fortunate enough to be a part of a team of close-knit compatriots. Professionals, every one of them, led by a man whom I've always had the utmost respect for, not only for his prowess as a captain but for the utter simplicity he could elicit in getting others to follow his lead." Roahn noticed that Korridon, at the table, took a rather obvious look behind him, his jaw partially gaped open like he could not believe he was in a same room as the legendary Commander Shepard. Garrus ignored the movement from his subordinate as he continued. "Despite all that I learned from this man, I unfortunately did not seem to pick up his penchant for giving a rousing speech during dramatic moments, so I apologize if I happen to lack the same… gravitas."

Polite smiles rose from the audience and Garrus paused a beat before continuing. "Replicating the feel of that team was always going to be a challenge. For a while, I wondered if I was ever going to be up to the task. However, those with a little more governance to their title have decreed that they see no reason why I should not at least try. I suppose it's time to put that to the test." Garrus let that settle, carefully watching the faces of his audience. "Umbra's going to be a direct continuance of how the Normandy crews operated. Rest assured, this isn't going to be your standard or impotent recon patrol team that you might have experienced under the regular military banners. Things will be a little more direct here. Beforehand, on missions of extreme importance, it was standard policy to break off into separate teams to claim different objectives simultaneously for maximum effectiveness. Two strike teams and a shadow team for infiltration. Our old template. It only seemed rather fitting that we model this team's approach on what the hard target really is. The shadow team was the crucial point of the sword while the strike teams butted up against the heavy forces, cutting through swaths of enemy territory to destabilize the opposition. Henceforth, our moniker of 'Umbra Team' will not boil down to lofty symbolism but perfunctory action. _Anticipatory_, no longer reactionary."

Garrus looked around the table and found that he had the attention of everyone completely engrossed with his every word. Grunt in particular was leaning forward like a kid at Christmas, eager to tear into the wrapped presents before him.

"I hardly need introduce myself to most of you," Garrus said as he eyed his friends in particular. "We've been through so much together that it would be a redundant action otherwise. Some," he now looked at Sam, who was still sipping at his coffee with glaring eyes, "we've known almost as long but never worked together in such a capacity before. But for the others," he made gestures towards Skye and Korridon, "rest assured that you're in good hands. We're a company of professionals and every one of you has had experience out in the field. You will be part of a team that is expected to be razor-sharp and keenly focused on the mission at hand. We're not a showboat force here. We're a lethal strike team that is meant to be the superior alternative. You know the drill."

Garrus had an instance of rumination as he looked to Roahn, mainly to check her reaction. The quarian had been listening with rapture during the entire thing and she had felt herself swelling while listening to Garrus talk. Very rarely had she heard her own sentiments expressed so clearly without dancing behind such loathed doublespeak terms. She hoped that the light that played from her eyes through her visor was enough to reach the turian to let him know that she stood behind him one hundred percent.

"Umbra's a new animal," the turian spoke with a deep fire. "A rare breed in this day and age. With the individual governments abdicating their responsibility to serve as a sufficient deterrent to the private armies running roughshod across the galaxy, we're meant to help curb the growth of this infestation. As long as we adhere to our mandate, we get to operate as an independent unit. That means that Umbra's missions are formulated here and go through no one else. Let's get something straight, we are not going to sit around and wait for the green light to proceed into a conflict-heavy zone. The Council's lifting their hands away from us this time. We get to be the first strike force at any area that has an illegal PMC occupation and we have the authority to disband them however we see fit."

A shaking hand then rose into the air, belonging to the younger turian, Korridon. Garrus paused a bit, chewing his teeth for a noticeable second, before he pointed to the man.

"Corporal Sidonis?"

_Ouch_. Even Roahn could tell that there was a bit of venom behind the enunciation of that last name.

Korridon appeared not to notice, or he was too nervous to be thinking straight, as he instead sat up straighter in his chair. "When you say 'disband', what method is being referred here, exactly?"

Roahn was struck at the turian's voice. It was higher pitched than she expected, perhaps a shade lighter than Garrus' voice. Thick and rumbling with subharmonics, the words had an interesting physical effect—Roahn could feel each syllable striking her in the chest. _Very, very odd_.

Garrus slowly blinked before answering the corporal's question. "Take a guess."

Korridon tilted his head in confusion and looked around the table for help. He settled onto Sam, who crudely ran a finger across his throat while making an exaggerated face.

"Uh-huh," Korridon murmured, now getting it.

"Before I forget," Garrus suddenly announced, realization coming to him, "I'd better introduce you all to your XO. She'll be one of your fire team leaders while out in the field. Trust me when I say that she's more than earned her way here: Lieutenant Commander Roahn'Shepard."

This was certainly unexpected, Roahn figured as she gave a jolt upon hearing her name being uttered. No one said anything about this. She suddenly felt rather uneasy as every single pair of eyes became fixated upon her. She did not shrink from the newfound attention as she had thrown up enough of a defense to counter her surprise.

Roahn scanned the tableau of faces for any hidden motions or any inkling of animosity of having a quarian occupy a superior position (not that she thought the latter was a possibility, but she was never too sure). She found only pride from Liara, a curious anticipation from Grunt, and a relaxed character emanating from Sam. When she looked upon Korridon, she found herself the subject of abject fascination and eagerness—this one was certainly keen to be here, judging from how his nerves seemed to be dying to jump out from that timid frame.

But when she finally got to Skye, she could not find the sort of reaction she had been expecting. Instead, the human was obviously gazing upon the metallic shimmer that Roahn's prosthesis exuded in the artificial light. _Ah_. Roahn flexed her fingers in reaction. That should have been expected—she had been in one piece the last time she had seen Skye. It made sense for this change in appearance to be noted.

"Anything you want to add, commander?" Garrus spoke again, but for the second time in a row did she realize he was talking to her. Damn it, with her father in the same room, being called 'commander' all the time was going to get really confusing rather fast. Frustrated in her slowness, she chomped her jaw tightly as she surged her way forward, remembering to take a breath before proceeding.

"There's, uh, very little that I can add to explain the situation that… um… _Captain_ Vakarian—" she looked to find Garrus politely shaking his hand back at her, "—sorry, _Garrus_, has already said. We should all know the trouble these PMCs have been causing people all over on so many worlds. Looting. Raping. Murdering. We won't be able to stop all of it, but we sure as hell can give it our best shot."

"Damn straight!" Grunt crowed from the back. The krogan was prone to throw his weight behind the decisions that contained raw force.

Flushed from the support, Roahn now grinned before that too dissolved back into a cold focus. "But there is one thing that I can mention that most of you probably haven't heard before. In fact, when I was in the Defenders, I was ordered not to tell this to anyone." She fiddled with her metal fingers, trying so desperately for each individual motion to replicate the exact sensation in her remaining organic digits. "The last two encounters that I had—with different PMC outfits—we came across the aftermath of what appeared to be highly elaborate robberies by a highly specialized squad. The contents of a couple vaults, one on Earth and the other on Luna, were removed of their contents—I never managed to find out what they contained. Both times, the perpetrators left behind grisly remains of the people guarding these vaults, mutilated in ways I couldn't even begin to describe." She now looked down at the floor, feeling a distant ache beyond the edge of her consciousness. "I interrupted them in the act back on Luna and… well… I'm not liable to forget that day anytime soon, as you can see."

The interrupting chill eagerly began to encroach upon her, but Roahn managed to beat it back with a shiver. Pinpricks ran up her back as the threat of pain waited in the shadows. It crept out of sight, having exhausted its chance. But it was patient, able to control its feral impulses.

It would have more chances to educate her with the savage hatred that fueled it.

Garrus noted the uncomfortable pause and began to step forward. "Roahn will provide us with a report of the current situation afterward. In the meantime, we have the broad strokes on file, so I'd suggest that you peruse it at your own—"

"—No, I'm fine," Roahn frantically nodded as she briefly blocked Garrus with a hand. "It's fine. It'll be good for everyone to hear this now."

"You sure? Believe me, no one's pushing you at all right now."

"I'm sure," she emphasized, grateful for the concern. "This is important."

She stared out at the faces that had never left her, expressions ranging from anxiety to extreme interest. She took a hard swallow, her face relaxing as she took in a needed breath, a cooling sensation filling her.

"This squad…" she began as all her fingers twitched from the memories. "The ones who attacked me, they're not normal PMC fodder. They don't appear to be affiliated with any outfit at all. I got a good look at all of them, as well as figured out all their names. Well, their monikers, to be precise. They go by the Aeronaut, Raucous, the Cardinal, and their leader, Aleph."

"A hint for theatrics, evidentially," Sam quipped as he spun his empty cup on the table.

"Two of them are clearly cybernetic in nature," Roahn continued. "This would be Raucous and the Cardinal. One takes on the appearance of an enlarged cross between a varren and a dinosaur and apparently lacks the ability to speak. The other—the Cardinal—seems to be more insectoid in appearance and can manipulate mass effect fields. As to their combat abilities, I… I was not able to see them in action, but based on the level of carnage they left behind, they would prove to be a challenge for even the most hardened of soldiers."

Roahn saw Korridon give a nervous gulp at that. Clearly the turian was not all that welcome to the prospect of getting involved in such a vicious fight. Well, he was not hired for his shooting prowess, so there was something to be said there. Conversely, Grunt looked positively beside himself as he was no doubt already fantasizing about embroiling himself with these characters. A young krogan still, he was always quick to violence in the absence of a proper diplomatic solution.

"The Aeronaut and Aleph are another matter entirely. They appear to be more organic in nature… but I can't attest to that for certain. Both are heavily armored and wear full combat helmets to shield their identities. The Aeronaut is particularly well-versed with close range weaponry and he uses a jetpack quite ably even in tight spaces. But Aleph…"

Roahn's own mind faltered as she focused her inward eye upon the dreaded individual. The specter of pain tiptoed forward, but she pushed it back into the depths.

"…Aleph is the mastermind behind these thefts. More than six feet tall. Carried no weapon. Dresses in a custom suit of armor capped with a cloak. There isn't much else to go on besides that. No special abilities, no obvious weaponry. Nothing. All I know is that everyone in that death squad _listened_ to him. He was there on both Earth and Luna, and I can't prove it for certain, but I know that there is a link between the PMC involvement and his direct presence. Make no mistake, the PMCs will be our top priority, but all of us are going to have to consider the possibility that we might just run into Aleph again."

"So if that does turn out to be the case, then what happens?" Sam asked, now reclining in his chair. "Turn tail and run like hell? Or break out the miniguns and just go to town? Well, I mean all of _you_ will be taking care of that crap," he pointed his fingers around the table. "I'll be the one waiting in the wings, hoping none of you get hurt."

"What a tragedy," Garrus lightly cuffed Sam's head as he walked by. "You might actually have to earn your pay for once."

Roahn just waited a few seconds before responding, her head shaking ever so slightly. "I mean… there probably won't be any sort of plan for that eventuality anytime soon. But I don't think it would be a good idea to take any of these guys in a straight fight. I just don't. They're too experienced, too sadistic, and they welcome violence. No, for the safety of all of us, we should _not_ directly pursue them for now."

She looked back to find grim faces among her. Clearly this sort of development had dampened all of their spirits. Immediately she felt a twinge of guilt. This was supposed to be a rousing introduction to Umbra as a way to get them fired up and pointed in the direction of the major problem, not take a left turn into a threat that was so far in the background it might as well be a mirage on the horizon. Roahn chewed her lip regretfully, but Garrus was there to reassure her with a strong nod in her direction, his eyes whispering their kudos for broaching the topic at all. She immediately began to feel a little better.

"It'll be important for us to consider that prospect as we plan our next move," Garrus said as he edged closer to the table. "Liara, have those names ever crossed your desk before? Have you ever been privy to any events concerning these strange individuals?"

The asari shook her head confidently, this all being news to her. "Nothing about it appeared on my regular channels back in the day."

"You don't have access to your old network anymore?" Garrus tiptoed around saying the words "_Shadow Broker_" as there were at least two people in the vicinity who were not privy to Liara's double life in the past. Best to keep it that way for now.

Liara shook her head again, a little lighter this time so that she could keep her eyes fixated upon Garrus as she did so. "I left all that behind a couple years after the war ended, remember? I did my part to help everyone rebuild as best as I could."

"And no one is judging you for doing so," Garrus assured.

Next to Liara, Sam tapped his fingers rapidly in front of him. "All of this sounds rather familiar, doesn't it? I mean, you had that Chimera assassin come after you all those years ago and he had been a cyborg as well."

"The _Legionnaire_," Roahn confirmed, recalling the hulking titan that had upended a part of her life so far back. "Yes. I have given that coincidence some thought."

"There's no relation between the two events? Nothing that we can tell?"

Shepard then rose from his chair into the light. A stranger, suddenly visible. A brief and ominous look filled his face in a moment of uncertainty, all fading into obscurity as he walked between Liara and Grunt's seats.

"The man who sent the Legionnaire after us, Raynor Larsen, was killed not long after he was imprisoned," Shepard said. "The CEO of Chimera met an earlier and similar fate in a hospital in Berlin. Both occurrences suggested that neither of them was the true mastermind behind the chaos concerning the _commander_ and I." He gave pause as he held Roahn rapt in the center of his vision—his lone eye—but for a moment, gladdening her by his respectful use of her rank instead of what might have been a demeaning comment if he had used her first name instead. "The use of cybernetic warriors could be coincidental. Or it could be directly related. There's no way to tell for certain. Did the commander see a crony, a completely separate party, or said mastermind themselves on Luna? The long and short of it is that we don't know. Perhaps not for a while. Perhaps not ever."

Shepard paused to let the words sink in. "But what I can relay is that we all need to be careful. The commander is correct when she issued her words of caution. If a simple PMC assassin like the Legionnaire was enough to keep a good number of us at bay, then it would be prudent for us to give these new foes a wide berth."

That macabre feeling again settled over the room. If a thunderclap had inexplicably transpired just outside, the timing would have been considered humorously welcome. As it was, the only one not immediately affected by the worrisome news was Roahn. There was an invisible line connecting father and daughter across the room, one continually reinforced by the strength of their wills. Between each other they found understanding, an almost sad acceptance, and strangely, peace. Peace from being immersed in a familiar setting. That moment where one's back was against the wall. A timer constantly clicking down to destruction.

It had been the father's entire life. Fire and blood. To even take a whiff of that old life was intoxicating to him. Despite his conscious urge to never plunge into that fever dream again, there were still old hints that he could relish that whispered and sang to him, constantly urging him to give into his hidden desires, to take up the weapon once more.

But he could withstand such urges. The sadness overtook him as he settled on his daughter. That life was now hers. Only she had to come to such a realization of its true cost earlier than he had. The unfairness and unluckiness she had been dealt. He had managed to walk away with livable wounds and a family to help him for the rest of his days.

What did Roahn have waiting for her on the other side?

"In any case," Garrus suddenly spoke up, jolting everyone from their respective reverie, "we can discuss all these things over down in the mess. Anyone want a bite? I'm starving."

* * *

In some small way, Roahn was glad that every nook and cranny of this ship left all pretense of ostentation behind in favor of a sterile and calculated functionality. That had been the purpose of the original _Normandy_ anyhow—it was good that the _Menhir_ paid respect to that fabled ship by directly emulating the circumstances for its existence.

The mess hall of the _Menhir_ took up the middle of the open space of the deck directly below the CIC. Facing the ship, Roahn's cabin was directly to the left of the mess while the med bay was on the opposite end. The forward batteries awaited down the long hall rimmed with sleeper pods. An easily navigable thoroughfare. The ship and all of its ilk had been designed so that every single room could be accessed relatively quickly from its spine: the elevator bay. Fortunate that, for those of empty stomach, access to the kitchen was available upon immediate disembarkation from the lift.

Garrus had gone to the trouble of hiring someone outside the usual military echelon to act as cook for the _Menhir_. Specifically someone who knew the difference between a whisk and a grater. A dark skinned human woman greeted Roahn as she approached the kitchen island—a tall bust capped with mirrored steel. Her name was Amelie and she had a very musical accent that Roahn thought was just lovely to listen to. Cajun, was what Amelie called it, though Roahn had little idea as to where she could guess that classification placed her on Earth.

It turned out that Amelie was quite deft at preparing food for the crew on both the levo and dextro side of the amino acid scale. Despite the fact that she could not taste her own dextro creations, Amelie's confections had apparently won Garrus over, thanks to her keen culinary instincts. Cooking was a skill that partly relied on intuition anyway—dextro foodstuffs actually had many analogues on the levo side which made Amelie's job all the more easier. To prove that point, she had already gone to the trouble of setting aside a food tube for Roahn to take. Inside looked to be a mouth-watering meal of crisped dark meat lathered in sauce made from its innards with the shredded samplings of leafy tubers accompanying it.

For a quarian, this was as close to a five star meal as one could get. Roahn's stomach was already rumbling as she laid eyes on it. Mostly all she had to eat these days were premade tubes filled with flash-frozen sludge. Nutritious, yet it left the most unpleasant aftertaste in her mouth.

Her fortunes were improving, it seemed.

She began twisting on an induction seal, preparing the tube for her to safely eat out of, when she ran into both Grunt and Liara heading towards the elevator, food also in their hands.

"Some things never change, eh?" she spoke to them, allowing a lightness to enter her voice.

"The familiarity is nevertheless welcome," Liara smiled, scanning the ship's interior, before she peered over at Grunt. "The both of us were just marveling at how much you've changed since we saw you for the first time."

"I've gotten taller since then." Roahn raised an eyebrow playfully.

Grunt laughed as he glanced at Liara. "_Definitely_ Shepard's kid."

"We were going to say hello to your father, actually," Liara said. "You didn't happen to catch where he was headed?"

Roahn jerked a thumb in the direction of the elevator. "Mentioned that he wanted to catch up with Garrus in his cabin, though I can't guarantee that for sure."

"Did he come down here at all for lunch?"

"Don't think so. Then again, I wasn't paying attention."

Liara nodded sagely. "We'll bring him some food, then. Can we talk later?"

"Sure," Roahn said as she edged on by the two, letting them access the line for the kitchen. "Looking forward to it."

Tube still in hand, Roahn's next plan of action in her head was to retire to the sanctuary of her own cabin, take a few needed moments to recharge her social batteries after a slight bout of introversion had crept up upon her, nearly exhausting her ability to pay attention to her surroundings. But, as if reacting to an unsaid signal, a strange allure pulled her focus over to the main dining table, where Korridon was sitting with his own tray of food, all alone.

Roahn looked to the door of her room and back over to the turian. No deference she could detect from his direction. Just loneliness. How strange. A vague inkling that her presence was somehow warranted, that she was constantly following the template her parents had previously set before her (though this was parked way back in that dim recess of her gray matter), Roahn found herself walking over, footsteps tender upon grated metal.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, causing Korridon to jump in his seat, startled. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to surprise you."

"No, no, I wasn't paying attention!" the man deferred before he came to the realization of who he was talking to. "I… I mean… I'm sorry, c-commander. I… had no… I mean I don't…"

Roahn suppressed a chuckle as she made a lowering gesture with her free hand. "It's all right, corporal. Take a deep breath. Relax. I couldn't possibly be _that_ intimidating."

The turian bobbed his head with a sheepish look, the burnt orange of his facepaint seemingly scorching the very air around him. "Something tells me that it doesn't matter what my answer will be. You're the commander. You have free reign of the ship."

"Up to a point," Roahn said. This one was wary of officers. Korridon's file did make mention of an insubordination incident. But that had been the only black mark in his record. Time to see if that was all that defined him. "But it doesn't mean I have to be dictatorial about it."

The answer seemed to make sense to Korridon and he lent a hand, an invitation to sit. Roahn took it gracefully, clouded glass obscuring her slightly curious look as her hands began to fiddle with the opening of her tube without even looking. From a pocket, she procured a sterile induction port and introduced it to the slots of the tube and the bottom of her helmet. Not the most elegant way to consume food, but it certainly did the trick.

"Now…" Roahn said after she took a few swallows of the meat, making a point to not make eye contact with the turian just yet, but even that failed when she noticed that even the tiniest declaration caused Korridon to lurch in his seat. "You're certainly a jumpy one."

"Can you blame me?" Korridon weakly chuckled as he tugged at his collar.

"I don't understand."

"Come on. It's not that obvious?"

"Apparently. I'm still in the dark as to what you're referring."

The turian took wayward glances back and forth before leaning over the table slightly. Roahn mimicked the movement, already feeling a buzz from the closeness, the sense of hushed matters being traded in a wary tête-à-tête.

"Has it ever been a distraction to you?" Korridon asked. "You know, when people find out who you are? _Shepard's_ daughter?"

Roahn's eyes narrowed briefly, but she relaxed, chalking the turian's bluntness up to nerves. "On occasion," she admitted. Mostly it had been an issue back when she had been going to school on Earth. She had enrolled under an alias so that she could avoid the limelight, but there were times when, under the haze of alcohol especially, her loose lips had confided to the wrong individual about her heritage. People would treat her like a celebrity, even stalk her, once they realized that she was the daughter of the most famous war hero in all of history. It had been so exhausting just to live a normal life then though it should have been a proper wake-up call that normality had probably been snatched away as a possibility before she had ever been born.

So, now that this question had been posed, she cautiously blinked in expectation, preparing herself for a potential rambling of exaltation.

"I'm not surprised," Korridon nodded. "Which outfit were you in before now? Migrant Fleet?"

"Defenders."

"Really? I was Turian Military."

"I know," Roahn felt a cat-like grin encroach. "I read your dossier."

If it was physically possible for a turian, Korridon seemed to blanch. "How much?"

Roahn shrugged. "Enough." She was not going to mention that particular sections of Korridon's file, the insubordination incident most notably, had been blacked out. Perhaps there was some advantage to this sort of bluff, even if the end game was not at all apparent to her yet.

However, this seemed to have the effect of disheartening the turian for a moment. Shame at thinking that his faults had been exposed so nakedly? Roahn knew that turians had a strong sense of honor towards duty that what might seem more trivial to any other species would be a crushing blow to someone like Korridon. But even more so, Korridon was almost painfully shy in this regard, shy in the fact that he was keeping himself so withdrawn amongst his own teammates.

Draw him back to the light.

"Those distractions don't bother me as much as they used to," Roahn said clearly, having the effect of drawing Korridon's attention back onto her. "When you're in the service, people learn to be professional rather quickly. They put on a stoic face."

_Take the hint._

"Yeah, well…" Korrdion's limber fingers tapped dryly upon his empty food tray, rattling the plastic against the hard metal of the table, "…things are all a bit more jumbled from my perspective. I've been at the disadvantage at being at the whim of seemingly spontaneous decisions."

"How do you mean?"

"For instance, just a week ago I was running menial documentation tasks for our military envoy on the Citadel. Now, I find myself on a warship, as part of a crew that includes not only you, but three others from the famous _Normandy_ crew, _and_ your father. So, if I do seem a little jumpy, I hope you can empathize."

Roahn thoughtfully fiddled with her own half-empty food tube. "I suppose this is more than a little familiar to me. I've known some of these people since I was nine. I can understand you being intimidated at first—"

"—_Excited_," Korridon corrected, his head rising eagerly. "Not intimidated. Excited."

The quarian allowed herself to relax a bit in her chair, an intrigued look flitting upon her features. Perhaps there was hope for this one yet. "Not expecting this sort of turn in your life?"

"Spirits, no," the turian rasped. "It… it's going to take me a bit to fully process it all. I mean… working with you… Liara T'Soni… Urdnot Grunt… Garrus Vakarian… and your father… that's enough to make anyone's head spin. And… the original pilot of the _Normandy_—the small human—he's not still around, is he?"

"You mean Joker? No, he retired years back. We've got a geth manning the cockpit now."

Korridon gave a suspicious blink and his back slowly straightened out. "Really?" Not convinced. "A geth?"

"His name's Sagan," Roahn assured. "He's docile, don't worry. You should introduce yourself sometime. He rarely leaves his chair."

The suggestion sounded as appealing to the turian as taking a long walk off a short pier. He scrunched his features, trying to appear nonchalant, but there were still tics there that Roahn read like an open book. Quarians may be bad at concealing their own body language, but that made them experts in reading the language of others. And every species had their respective tells.

"Commander?" Korridon now changed the subject. "Can I ask you something?"

Roahn let the question sink in, finding that she had managed to capture the turian's complete attention without effort. "I wouldn't be much of an XO if I didn't listen to the people under my charge. What is it?"

"Are you able to tell me why I was picked for this team? I know that you need my engineering expertise for this particular ship, but that's not what I'm talking about. You read my file, so you should know the history I have with the people here. More specifically, the history my uncle had with your captain—_our_ captain."

Pushing her food tube to the side, Roahn politely folded her hands in front of her, a show that she was giving Korridon her complete and undivided attention. "I know some of the story. I know how your uncle—Lantar Sidonis—ended up betraying Garrus' team on Omega. I know that Garrus harbored a grudge against him once he escaped Omega with my father's help. And I know that, when Garrus tracked him down on the Citadel and was about to kill your uncle in retaliation, he relented."

The turian seemed to peer straight through her visor. "My uncle was not a bad man, commander. But that doesn't mean he made mistakes."

"I'm not blaming you for the faults made by someone else."

"No? Things are a little more different than you'd imagine. You see, what my uncle did _shamed_ my family. He broke one of our most core tenets: he betrayed his team. Even when he led a successful suicide mission on Palaven during the war, destroying legions of Reaper troops along with himself, that did nothing to placate my family. We even changed the color of our face-paint," he gestured to the colorful splashes that ran along his features, "to distance ourselves from him."

Roahn could feel the turian's vulnerability wafting from the man in waves. She opened herself up to them, finding similarly broadcasted themes had once occupied her own very thoughts. She almost had the inclination to just… reach out for reassurance, but the suggestion was not nearly enough to overcome her inhibitions.

"All that for one man's action?" she asked instead.

"A _mild_ reaction, for our standards," Korridon murmured. "Could my uncle have realized just how much of a hero Garrus Vakarian would become to the galaxy? If his betrayal on Omega had ended in the captain's slaughter, what sort of repercussions would that have had on the future?"

"I see your point."

"Any other family would strike off their face-paint and live in exile for the rest of their days, too ashamed to be viewed upon by those with more… judgmental thoughts."

Roahn found herself nodding absentmindedly, an unconscious sign of her following along. "I see now why you accepted the offer to join the team," she said. "You see the honor in what we're doing. You think that doing something worthwhile will absolve the sins. You want to clear his name."

"Not just _his_ name," Korridon emphasized, staring at her with every shred of intent left within him. "Mine, too."

The quarian's smile was small, but it contained so many layered emotions within the very action that even Korridon seemed to pick up on them.

"Then that drive is what makes you a welcome addition," she said.

It was easy to be stricken by the similar bonds that held them both down together, Roahn figured. The idea that not all families were perfect was out in full force. Korridon had his uncle. She had her father. Similar seeds of tension gripped them both, but there was also this nearly reverential hold on the sacred familial bond that kept Korridon from disowning his uncle entirely. It was a complicated sort of love that vexed Roahn from time to time, knowing how difficult it was to grow up with Commander Shepard as her father.

The man had been difficult to grow up with when she was young. The death of her mother had left gaping wounds in both of them and neither of them managed to find the proper way to heal for the longest time. Happenstance and a bit of luck had finally forced them to put their differences aside in the end. It had required a lot of brute force, and there were still moments where Shepard still served to frustrate her, but the sheer gratitude she felt when he made every effort to acknowledge her was a perfect reminder that the man was trying his best. He wanted to be a good father to her but to spare her the emotional baggage that came with his past. She could forgive him for that. _That_ came easily.

How could Korridon convey his own forgiveness towards his uncle? Words could not placate the dead.

The silence, held fastidiously by the strength of their own wills, quickly avalanched away as a lithe figure abruptly walked behind Korridon and noisily sat down, their tray clattering upon the table. A knowing smile. Scarlet hair bobbing in a ponytail. Flawless hands.

Skye.

"I hoped I would get a chance to talk to you before lunch ended!" the human said breathlessly, her sparkling eyes focusing only on Roahn, ignoring Korridon completely. "So much has happened in the interim. I close my eyes and, wow, here you are. A commander."

Roahn narrowed her eyes, wary. No love lost between them in Skye's mind, apparently. Curious, considering their last meeting had ended on a rather fraught note. Roahn had been expecting at least a sour note of contention from the woman, so this rather cheery disposition was catching her off guard.

"_Lieutenant_ commander," Roahn corrected evenly as she gravitated her hands back over to her food tube for her to hold—yield—as if it could provide her some protection. "And things do tend to change, given a few years. Whereas you… you haven't changed a bit."

Not exactly a statement filled with the complete truth, but its meaning was complementary enough to be forgiven. Skye had aged rather well, as youthful as ever. Her unmarred skin shone lowly from the light fixtures above the table, widening the grin that never left her face.

"Just got finished chatting with the doc, as a matter of fact," Skye said as she tilted her head in the direction of the med bay. "Friendly enough guy. Quite the chatterbox."

_Chatterbox? Sam?_

Bemused, Roahn turned around to catch Sam's expression through the window of the med bay, where he was eating his lunch in peace. The man had on a ragged expression and his mouth was somehow agape in a mixture of shock and deep annoyance. Clearly Skye had been the one talking his ear off to the point where he had nearly lost his mind. He caught Roahn's eye and shook his head, mouthing '_God help you_.'

At this time, Skye finally turned to Korridon and offered her hand to shake. "How's the weather up there, Big Bird? Skye Lorne."

Korridon was rather clueless as to the reference Skye made, but accepted the hand all the same, his grip immediately being clamped hard by the human. "Korridon Sidonis."

"Pleasure. You know Roahn long?"

Skye cocked her head again, deepening her smug look. More and more unnerved, the turian wavered back between Roahn and Skye before stumbling upon his answer, shaken back into his shy nature again. "We… we… we just met."

"Did you really?" Skye spoke quickly before she tapped her chest. "We were in Basic together. Same class in the Defenders with this one. Same unit, even. Ah, we were inseparable then, weren't we, Roahn?"

"Some would say so, yes," Roahn said diplomatically, her gut starting to twist and turn.

The woman seemed to sense Roahn's discomfort and narrowed her eyes evilly, obviously enjoying the effect she had on the quarian. "Yes, _inseparable_. Did everything together in our early days as Defenders, didn't we? Classes, modules, _partners_. The other cadets even gave the two of us a name. You remember, right, Roahn? They called us 'The Valkyries.' No one could stop us on the training fields. We would dominate the other teams together. Always. When we went through the SERE regimen at camp, we came in first all the time. No matter what obstacles they threw at us—snow, dogs, fellow cadets—we'd always find a way to make it through. Hey, Roahn, remember what the cadets always used to say to us in the halls, right after we kicked all their asses?"

"I can't recall," Roahn fibbed.

"Sure you can!" Skye wheedled. "How could you forget something like that?"

"I haven't given it much thought. Been a while since Basic."

"Surely you must know," the woman persisted. "You loved the attention they gave you. That _I_ gave you. Here, I'll help you remember—"

Roahn shut her eyes, almost wishing she could drown out the noise. _I haven't forgotten, Skye. 'The Valkyries—'_

"—'The Valkyries'—"

—'_ride again.'_

"—'ride again.'" Skye finished, slapping the table once for emphasis, making the easily startled Korridon jump in his seat. "Oh, how everyone was jealous of us and our prowess! 'The Valkyries ride again!' You and I, Roahn, unstoppable. And now, back together under a new banner. Some might say this is a fortuitous outcome for us."

Skye now leaned closer, her breath dropping to an intimate whisper as her breaths grew heavy, the thick purple and blue hues of Roahn's form swimming in the human's irises. "Others might say… _fated?_"

As the last word left Skye's lips, Roahn felt a gentle pressure barely nudge her shin guard—Skye's foot. Everything in her body froze, too startled to even speak. She dared not look down lest she give the human all the satisfaction she would need for the remainder of the day. _Unbelievable_. Barely an hour on this ship and already Skye was flirting with her. The woman had no shame whatsoever. It was like she had the expectation that they would be able to pick up where they had left off together so long ago, conveniently seeming to forget that they had last faced each other with regretful looks and a disappointed silence. Skye had emotionally let her down back then, so why did she think that it would be different now?

Of course, Roahn remembered that Skye had always been like this. Carefree. Aloof. But determined and passionate, oh yes, it was easy for her to recall what made the human so attractive to her. Skye possessed the kind of intensity powerful enough to draw her breath away. She was uncannily gifted with the ability to make one think that they were the most interesting person in the galaxy. Her hawkish eyes could shred through flesh and bone to find the emotional centers that comprised Roahn's vulnerabilities.

And Skye had been the willing one to prop Roahn up and make her the center of her own universe. For a time.

Yet all good things must come to an end.

The tapping of Roahn's fingers of her prosthesis had grown firmer over the last fifteen seconds, in which Roahn refused to respond to Skye's rhetorical question. Solid alloy against thin metal produced unnatural clicking sounds, momentarily drawing Skye's attention to her body's latest addition.

"I couldn't have imagined what you must have felt like," Skye now murmured as she slid her hand across the table, fingers outstretched to touch the back of Roahn's prosthesis. "I don't think I would have understood the pain—"

Roahn slid her fingers out of reach right before Skye could touch them reassuringly. She flicked her gaze from Korridon to Skye and back to Korridon again before she abruptly stood, taking her empty food tube with her.

"Excuse me, Korridon," she said to the turian, making a pointed effort to not look at Skye. "I'll still be interested in getting to know my crew afterward. There'll be another moment like this."

"So am I," Korridon affirmed a little eagerly, "…commander."

Turning curtly upon a heel, Roahn disposed of her used food canister before she made her way over to the elevator. She touched the button to call it to her floor and waited in front of the door, tapping her foot impatiently.

The empty vibrations of approaching feet rapidly approached, a growing call. Skye emerged from around the corner, eyes full of determination. Roahn kept looking at the closed elevator door, hoping for a speedy flight off this level.

"If there was something you wanted to say back there," Skye tilted her head over towards her origin, "I'd rather you come out and say it."

"I'd just be repeating myself," Roahn replied coolly. "The both of us have said what we needed to already."

"Then I don't understand. You're acting like you _want_ to start out on the wrong foot with us."

Now Roahn turned, pearl eyes finding ones the color of charred wood, expression as blank as it could be. "I'm not in the habit of making the same mistakes twice."

"Ah. So _that's_ what you think of me as."

"You know what I mean," Roahn had to grit her teeth, finding it hard to resist shouting the obvious in the human's face.

"In your view, we drift apart, go our separate ways, and permanently close the doors on that chapter? You ever once come to the realization that people do change?"

The door finally opened after what had felt like an eternity. An escape path. Roahn took two steps into the lift and turned around, clearly blocking the entrance to anyone else. She hovered her finger over the button to move up to the CIC, but did not depress it just yet. She stared at her unmoving hand, momentarily lost, before she beheld Skye again. But in the next second, Roahn managed to spot, just beyond the forest of Skye's red hair, her father ambling past them in the hallway, his eye tracking his daughter in curiosity before a simple glimmer turned to understanding and a yawing hunger. Roahn did not react as Shepard absorbed this glimpse of her broadcasted life, but internally, her heart gave a tender clamp, sending a tiny splinter through her insides in a quick throb of pain.

She had to shake her head to clear it so that she could finally give Skye a reply, managing to keep her breathing under control.

"I fear they might not change enough," she said sadly.

Skye snorted in derision. "You forget that I've seen every side of you already, Roahn. What you are. What you're hiding. You called _me_ here, remember? If it wasn't by your direct word, you didn't speak up when you had to have known how you'd react. That's what drew us together—our impulses. Or did you really expect me to believe that you'd have other expectations for this, now that we're working together once more?"

Roahn sighed, frustration gnawing at her bones. The audacity she had to endure! "The only thing I _expect_ from you, Skye, is that you simply do your job… and don't ever assume beyond your station."

She finally touched the control and the door began its torturous slide towards closing. Roahn managed to get the final word as she looked upon Skye's rather unreadable face. "And… Skye?"

The human lifted her chin.

"On this ship, you call me 'commander.'"

* * *

The _Morningtide_  
_The Cardinal's Chambers_

The Aeronaut's breath hissed from his vocabulator as he strode into the dark hall, the photoreceptors in his helmet activating to enhance the luminescence level in his vision. He was still encumbered by his light armor, but he had at least left his jetpack behind in the armory. No sense in lugging around that bulky thing on board one of the most secure and secretive ships in the galaxy. The _Morningtide_ did not even exist on paper—its construction and purchase had been completely excised from all documentation that could ever trace back to it. Its enigmatic owner had been thorough.

That did not mean that the Aeronaut felt completely safe, even on this ship. There was always an occasion for him to expect an attack to spring from the shadows. He still had two submachine guns strapped to the holsters at his thighs for quick access, keeping with this line of thinking. He had customized the guns himself to a degree nearly unparalleled in terms of comprehensiveness. The mercenary had replaced the triggers and redesigned the firing systems to decrease the overall trigger break and to lessen the weight of the pull. An overcharged mass effect generator had replaced the original systems of the weapons, allowing for high-velocity bullets to be fired. The cooling system had been supplemented with a liquid-cooled pump that dispersed a small quantity of low-temp-variance liquid throughout the interior of the gun, allowing for more shots between reloading. The sight system had also been revamped to link camera footage of the barrel directly to his helmet, always providing him with the ability to aim down the length of the gun.

The Aeronaut also had at least five knives hidden on his person in a variety of places. Some easily accessible and others not so much, but they were there to remind him—and others—that he would not be taken unaware and would be ready to retaliate at a moment's notice. That mentality had been what kept him alive all this time. No reason for him to deviate from the script right now.

As the mercenary walked deeper and deeper into the darkened lair, his audio receptors picked up faint echoes. Sounds of moaning. The dribble of liquid. Quiet, electronic warbles. He paid them no mind as he proceeded on, the last of the light now snuffed out behind him with the closing of the main door, the last gasp of a dying candle.

The Aeronaut found the Cardinal at the far end of the room. The slender cyborg was hunched over an unusual piece of machinery, one that had the appearance of perhaps a large aquarium. Life support systems made up the metallic base, with winking diodes flashing half the colors of the rainbow upon the side. Thick and clear plastic made up the 'bowl' of the device, not large enough for a person to lay in comfortably, but it could certainly be made possible if one were to set to the task. As it happened, there was something squirming in the tank right at the moment, but the light was too dim to make anything out. The Aeronaut ignored the contents of the Cardinal's little experiment for now. He had other reasons for being here.

"I did not wish to be disturbed," the Cardinal spoke first, her high pitch slicing through the air with a hiss.

The Aeronaut was undeterred. "Another piece of the Monolith has been located on Illium. At an auction. High buy-in. We've been tasked with retrieving it."

The Cardinal raised her frame slightly, signifying interest. "The Tranquility grows ever closer."

"So it appears."

"Does exhilarate you, knowing that your purpose will soon reach its zenith?"

The Aeronaut touched the grip of his submachine guns carefully, not entirely certain if the cyborg had been levelling a subtle threat. "I'd imagine that Aleph will still have a use for me and my men. If he asks for my sword, he gets it."

The Cardinal then chuckled, a terrifying sound. "He also pays you handsomely."

"Well," the mercenary shrugged, "good work never comes for free."

Turning around, the cyborg shifted her gaze so that the Aeronaut was able to see her enigmatic expression. However, the mercenary long ago figured out that there was little variation in the moods that the Cardinal shifted between—either extreme reverence or extreme indignation. There really was not much else that the imagination could conjure for the moods parked in the middle of those posts.

"Are you fully in agreement with his work?" the Cardinal pressed. "Or are you solely driven by the increments to your accounts?"

The Aeronaut scoffed, amused by the attempt to probe him. "While the income is a contributing factor, it is hard for me to deny that Aleph's objective contains logic I find… agreeable. A cold logic, but one that I also believe must be dispersed."

The Cardinal then drew herself up to her full height, towering a full head over the Aeronaut, which he in turn despised. Her limber arachnid form softly hummed and her stilt-like legs began to float a few inches above the ground. Pale and angelic, the Cardinal's hands clasped together thoughtfully while the rest of her appendages spread out behind her back.

"His philosophy is what marks the edges of sanity and delusion," the Cardinal whispered. "As in all things in life eventually come down to a binary decision. Illusion of choice. The final syllogism. How could organics hope to come to final deduction? You, Aeronaut… is it so easy for you to accept? Have the material wants of a being of your nature proved to not interfere in your objective? Can you attain the mettle required to stand above the detritus?"

The mercenary just levelled his eyes, ticked off from the cyborg's self-righteous nature. The Cardinal was just trying to bait him. She had been doing this ever since he had entered Aleph's employ. It seemed the cyborg had an unnatural hatred for all things organic, and it was only because the Aeronaut had not gone to the trouble of replacing any part of his body due to injury or necessity had he unintentionally drawn the Cardinal's ire.

Out of all of Aleph's cronies, the Cardinal was the one who irritated him the most. It was a weekly occurrence that he entertained the idea of killing her, usually manifested after he had been subject to one of her disparaging comments towards his status as 'lowly organic.' How he would love to crack open that body of hers one day, to hear her screams of horror as he ripped out her gut sac with his bare hands. It would be the closest thing to violating her body as he could get, a final rape of her mind before he could snuff out her feeble existence. Perhaps then, in her final moments, she would be able to look inwardly and glimpse her own inferiority.

Ah, but that would be a moment to live forever in his fantasies. He still grinned underneath his helmet, all the same.

"If you keep your expectations low," he said, "you'll never fail to be surprised."

The Cardinal stilled at the response, processing her own reaction. "So it may seem," she finally said. "The ultimate design of the Tranquility appeals?"

"Very."

A pause, then a thoughtful and nearly imperceptible trill resounded from the Cardinal's chassis.

"And the design of my own handiwork?" the cyborg asked as she turned to the side, allowing the Aeronaut to view the hideous device behind her.

The Aeronaut tilted his head so that he could have a better look. With a clearer line of sight towards the machinery that had been previously obscured, he betrayed no reaction as he looked at what comprised the inside of the large tank, now realizing that the squirming and blurry object he had previously glimpsed inside the container was actually _two_. Not only that, they were making muffled whimpering noises together.

Pained. Afraid.

Alive.

They were _people_.

He walked up for a better look. Two people—a human male and a turian woman—were trussed up and suspended within the tank thanks to mass effect fields directly linked to the metallic bonds that bound their limbs, keeping them hovering above the ground. They were also naked, or nearly at that point. The man was placed flat upon his back, legs bent at an awkward angle behind him, while the turian hung over him, facing his front. Face masks made out of a polished mold had been clasped over the faces of the prisoners, stifling their cries. That explained the suppressed noises the Aeronaut had heard earlier. Tubes running from the corners of the masks trailed down towards the base, supplying the captives with a steady supply of air, water, and liquefied food. Other tubes had been inserted into other areas of the people as well, areas that made the Aeronaut feel slightly uncomfortable once he realized where they terminated. The barest sense of the word "slight."

One of the Cardinal's slender arms then reached into the tank, the retracted tip of her limb now slowly coming into view. The cone of metal that she gently lowered down, the very metal that capped her tip, was anodized with a metal that seemed to shimmer a sickly green. It pulsated like an infected cell, greedy energies all clamoring to be released from their prison.

_Polonium_, the Aeronaut noted. The most radioactive natural element known. Trace amounts of the element had been inserted into every one of the Cardinal's spindly limbs. A poisoned bayonet. Anyone stabbed by one of the Cardinal's arms would be guaranteed a slow and painful death from radiation poisoning. An apt fail-safe, in the Aeronaut's opinion, but such methodologies were a bit too slow for his patience. He was used to getting things done a little quicker, but he could not state otherwise that the Cardinal's own methods had merit.

Now the Cardinal's arm reached the side of the bound human in the tank. Without grace, she jabbed forward and punctured the side of the man, below his ribs, going in about an inch. The captive jerked and cried out into his mask. Blood started to weep down his side. Blindfolded, he would not be aware as to the terrible radiation that was now spreading throughout his entire bloodstream, consuming and feeding on healthy cells, as he was now damned to die a painful and messy death. Within days, his skin would start to rot. His arteries would split open. His organs would fail and blacken. He would expel blood from every orifice.

And of the turian he shared his prison with…

The Cardinal withdrew her arm and she touched a control at the base of the tank. Instantly, thick incubation liquid splashed into the chamber, coating the human and the turian as it rapidly filled. The prisoners moaned and thrashed, the human's blood staining a tiny bit of the topmost level as it rose. The masks they wore would prevent them from drowning, as they now pumped in recycled air to fuel their lungs, but that would be the least of their worries as it turned out.

If the Cardinal had a face, she would be smiling.

She touched another control and the mass effect fields exerted new forces upon the bonds of the captives, maneuvering them closer together, hips connecting to hips, maintaining a horrible rhythm. The prisoners shuddered and gargled, their movements lethargic in the murky soup that enclosed them. Electric currents ran though their systems, maintaining an optimal, yet unwanted, level of arousal in the both of them. The mass effect fields yanked, spreading the legs of the turian. They then lowered her on top of the human, causing them both to cry out together, judging from the bubbles that suddenly rushed past their faces.

"Copulation and infestation," the Cardinal proudly announced. "The fatal outcome is obvious, but it's the interim that I'm most interested in. The transfer of sickness. The reactions from species to species."

"A new culmination to your experimentation?" the Aeronaut asked, his voice keeping its mild tone despite the barbarous cruelty he was witnessing.

The Cardinal waggled a finger. "Oh, this is still keeping with familiar motifs. This is merely a new branch from the result I seek." She raised her arms to the ceiling. "For my cadre is vast and damned to exist as a new census, a codex I have borne myself."

A fleeting dash of light swept across the expansive chambers, a singular moment of visibility in an eternity of blindness. The Aeronaut had but a split second, yet in that time, he managed to see everything.

Hundreds of pods, similar to the one right next to him, arranged in an endless grid, stretching from one side of the hall to the other. All filled with people inside. More prisoners, bound and trapped in the tanks of fluid, each one doomed to the similar and frightful action that befell the newest additions to the fold.

He was surrounded by the tortured.

Perhaps a thousand lay trapped here, all thrusting against one another, their terrible screams and cries unlistenable to anyone other than the soul they were having intercourse with, for their own noises were being directly pumped into the ears of their partners, leaving only horror and violation to be their true companions.

Human. Turian. Asari. Krogan. Salarian. Quarian. Elcor. Volus. Hanar. Drell. Batarian. Vorcha. Each species had representation in this hell. They mingled with their own kind, other species, and sometimes of differing genders. The endless sessions stretched on and on, cramped together in these vessels with their partners. The Aeronaut turned on the spot, a lonely dot in a plain of emptiness and despair. He could see the dim shapes in the liquid shudder in either ecstasy or unimaginable agony. Unidentifiable noises seeped through the clear plastic and the fluid. Pain and pleasure intertwined, reborn as new bedfellows. Fear sapped away, replaced with exhaustion. The exhaustion of living. The Aeronaut wondered how long it usually took for anyone here to begin to pray for death. A day? An hour? Mere minutes?

"And it is quite the census that you have gathered," he said casually, not a trace of agitation infecting his words.

"A small sampling," the Cardinal chuckled, pleased with herself. "I anticipate taking quite a lot longer, and using more bodies, before I discover the true pattern for myself."

"The true pattern?"

"Yes. Life is a series of empirical patterns and behavioral themes, driven by chemical reactions in the brain. It is the drive to either receive these reactions or avoid them that intrigues me. Extreme duress and sexual pleasure. A bite to the hand or a pat on the head."

"How long do you make them last?"

The Cardinal shrugged. "Until they expire."

The Aeronaut tilted his head, but not in apprehension. "That wasteful?"

"It is all part of my design. Combinations of race and gender mingling with the threat of additional torture. They're provoked to maintain intercourse—they receive electric shocks should they stop, even for a second. Should one die, I simply swap the corpse out with a fresh one."

The newest container that the Cardinal had recently occupied with the recent prisoners then automatically wheeled itself away to join the rest of the ranks. The Aeronaut tracked its departure. "That fellow you irradiated will certainly hasten the process."

"A new variable," the Cardinal said. "A new reaction for me to observe. Each one of these sessions has produced a unique result to be recorded. Perhaps this will all lead to me possessing a greater understanding of the flesh I torture even now. A way to predict the reactions of the living, for example. A way to finally… comprehend." She turned to the Aeronaut, noting his stiff body posture. "You disapprove?"

Slowly, the Aeronaut graced the Cardinal by placing the direction of his optics squarely at the face of the demonic cyborg. "Why would I?" was his answer.

The Cardinal seemed intrigued at his response, maybe even disappointed. "No qualms about standing amongst the suffering?"

"Suffering doesn't bother me," the mercenary growled. "And my opinion does not matter to you."

"Correct words, once spoken. But words are easy to conjure."

As the Cardinal continued to behold him in perhaps droll disbelief, the Aeronaut paced a few steps tilting his head at the metallic creature, finally eliciting a laugh from his throat.

"I have to admit," the Cardinal said, "this amused reaction was not what I expected from you."

"Only because you speak of suffering like it's a statistical necessity. I'm not sure you even understand what its true nature can entail."

"And you believe you can enlighten me?" the cyborg hissed.

"You've already explained it to me yourself. You don't understand the lengths an organic can go to satisfy their natures. Its horizon is endless, unmeasurable to your math."

"Yet it is precisely that calculus that has shaped the entirety of our lord's plan. The brutality required from us is reliant upon his judgment."

"And you think that I have not matched such brutality?" the Aeronaut countered. "Was that quarian bitch I maimed on Luna not proof enough for you?"

"A paltry example," the Cardinal said. "You didn't kill her."

"On _Aleph's_ orders."

"Unimpressive nonetheless, as a singular sample."

"You need the pattern drawn out for you?" the Aeronaut replied, now incensed. "All this logic and yet you nag about the smallest outliers. All your bluster when you cannot even imagine what constitutes the archetype of brutality. I have seen this. I have been this. Year ago, I was tasked by a banking company with retrieving account records stolen by a batarian thief, who had copied these valuable records to a data disk. My team and I caught up with him three days later. He had not gotten very far. Understanding he was outnumbered and outgunned, he surrendered without a fight, expecting that we would haul him in unharmed. He also had a good excuse for us bringing him in alive… because he had swallowed the data disk before we had arrived."

The Aeronaut paused a beat. "The stupid fuck had this dumb smile on his face the entire time, thinking his plan was foolproof. However, it didn't seem to occur, within that moronic brain of his, that all we wanted was the data disk. Not him. As far as the bank was concerned, they just wanted their property back. So, since we weren't going to wait around until the disk passed through the batarian's digestive system, we set about retrieving it in a more _expedited_ fashion." The mercenary crept forward, his vocabulator shredding his raspy voice as his pitch artificially wobbled up and down. "We tied the bastard to a table and we sliced his belly open. We didn't even go to the trouble of killing him beforehand. He was _alive_ when we cut into him. I was the one who rummaged through his guts, taking out coils of intestines until I finally found his stomach. Digestive organs don't have many pain receptors, so the batarian was unable to feel the knife slashing through his stomach, spilling its contents and the disk itself. Blood and bile spilled over my hands, thick and greasy. The organ cavity _stinks_, did you know this? An awful smell. The batarian eventually succumbed to shock and blood loss after seeing his own insides. Didn't die quickly and my, how he howled. I never knew that batarians could scream so high."

The Cardinal stood on by, none of her limbs twitching a millimeter out of place. That was when the Aeronaut knew that he had her attention gripped in his fist. "I knew what I had to do to get the job done and I did it without a second's hesitation. So don't even _think_ that I could possibly falter when my work has already matched yours, Cardinal."

Between the rows of machines, the Cardinal looked upon the Aeronaut in what approached a wary sort of respect. The anguish that filled the room avoided both of their presences, sealing them in a bubble of their own creation. The afflicted and the dying screamed in their private purgatories, begging for respite, but their pleas fell upon deaf ears.

They would always be deaf.

"Indeed," the Cardinal mused. "A new culmination."

Their duties would soon spirit the both of them from this room, leaving the prisoners to wallow in the dark specter of torrid, frightful, and ripping agony as their bodies, minds, and souls were violated again, again, and again.

As the last splinter of light flashed from existence, the room finally fell into shadow. The chorus of wails regurgitated themselves amongst the afflicted, the only comfort provided to each soul in realizing that, despite all their pain, they were not alone.

* * *

**A/N: Umbra Team has now been formed! A mixture of faces old and new. We'll soon be able to see them in action, don't you worry. Every member here is going to have their moment to shine.**

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Be sure to leave your thoughts if you have a few minutes!**

**Playlist:**

**Gun Range/Fencing**  
**"Arena"**  
**Daft Punk**  
**TRON: Legacy (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Hall of the Cardinal**  
**"Agnus Dei"**  
**Eliot Goldenthal**  
**Alien 3 (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	9. Chapter 9: Malignent Roots

"_Want that sniper scope to stop shaking around? Delegate experience points to your overall Fitness. Or you could just hit the gym and do a few arm curls. Wimp."_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

_Citadel Tower__  
Assembly Hall – Level B11_

Cirae had never been to this level of the Assembly Hall before in her entire career as a representative. Then again, she had never before had the occasion or the inclination to venture here anyway. Levels B10 and down were reserved for the committees that held the most sway amongst the governing bodies—it made sense why she would have never made it down here until now.

Until her welcome, yet unknown, benefactor had stepped in and provided her with the key to the lock that had been frustrating her every step of the way.

If only she knew who that person was.

The elevator deposited Cirae at the far end of a long hall, with Veyre, her bodyguard, at her hip. The hall's floor was a sprawling ribbon of polished steel, the walls cliffs of sandstone still glimmering with impurities. Fancy cylindrical light fixtures upon the walls glowed a warm bath of illumination upon the corridor. The clicking of Cirae's heels on the ground echoed monstrously—long claps bouncing off polished stone, unable to be absorbed into infinite silence.

There was a door at the terminus of the hall on the other side. Two guards—one human, the other turian—dressed in white Citadel armor flanked it, presumably to make sure that only those that were invited were granted passage through. Cirae took a look over at Veyre and waved her back.

"Go back up top," she told the fellow asari. "I can take it from here."

Veyre furrowed her brow, a little uneasy. "You sure, ma'am?"

"Absolutely."

Continuing to stride forward, Cirae found that breathing became a whole lot more difficult the closer she got to her destination. It was as if the entire weight of the tower and the hundreds of floors above her were all exerting crushing forces upon her very body, threatening to grind her into paste. An omen, not necessarily the good kind. Her skin was developing an itch where the straps of her subdued but elegant dress held her at her shoulders. If anything, she tightened her gaze, unwilling to show any sign of discomfort. No one would be able to glean any advantage just by looking at her, that was for damn sure.

Cirae clenched her left fist anxiously as she came within yards of the guards. There was no need to flash any identification here. Every amphitheater in the Assembly Hall had scanners built into the entrance hallways that automatically read the credentials on each participant's omni-tool. Now, if this went according to plan, all Cirae would have to do would be to walk on by the guards like everything was normal while the embedded software in the building reached out an invisible hand and would presumably "find" the sponsored access key on her tool that she had been gifted by her secret admirer. If that did not come to pass, then all she would face would be a rather awkward explanation to the guards. Not at all high stakes, but she was not particularly keen to lose face over something as so simple as a misunderstanding. Her pride would take the brunt of the blow, but she was not so accommodating to lose even that.

Fortunately, it seemed that her credentials were all in order because the guards silently stepped aside, granting her access through the hall. A tiny yellow strip now glimmered on the floor, guiding Cirae to her seat. The passageway beyond led her to a curved foyer coated in a thin carpet colored coal black. She traversed the trail the holographic line weaved around the corner, up a small flight of stairs, and finally to her own private little booth. She stepped inside a tiny door and it shut behind her, sealing her inside.

This was nothing new to Cirae. All amphitheaters followed the same basic structure as the main Assembly hall. She was completely encased in this little room, big enough just to hold one person, with only a curved window to peer out of. The control panel in front of her seat was completely darkened, all of its features disabled. Cirae figured that was going to be the case. Because someone had sponsored her to join this meeting, she was not an official member of this committee and thus had no speaking power. Less chances for her to publicly make a fool out of herself, though.

Cirae took her seat and waited for the meeting to begin. She noted that she was on the top row of the hall about five risers high. She looked around to room to see if she could spot any familiar faces in the crowd but all she saw were blacked out windows of each individual pod. Weird. This was not standard practice for Council committees like this, she figured. Why would every member, in a meeting like this, stand to hide themselves behind an anonymous veil? A cautious attempt to hide their identities from naïve eyes waiting up above or in the wings?

_Who really knows at this point?_

Three more minutes passed before a soft chime resounded through the chamber. Time to begin. The lights upon the risers dimmed as the center of the room at the bottom seemed to brighten up, as if hit by a blast of sunlight.

"_Committee of Council Authority_," a monotonous female voice quietly slithered from the overhead speakers in Cirae's pod. "_Conclave 223.1.12. All members present. Begin with singular subject_."

Cirae could not help tapping her fingers against the ledge, leaning forward ever so slightly, as she watched a door at the bottom near the stage silently part, from which a human entered to take his seat at the lone desk at the bottom. The human was of average height, but of a solid build. Combed back hair the color of tar, crisp Alliance uniform, clean-shaven face, middle aged. Familiar looking, come to think of it. Also rather handsome, but that aspect had been noted in the deepest part of Cirae's mind, the place where she discarded all of the observations that were not important in the here and now.

An Alliance soldier, eh? Cirae felt she had been here before. It had only been a few days since she had sat in upon that poor Defender trooper trying to defend the actions of her superiors in front of an unforgiving and intransigent audience. While it was hard to read the mood of the room, considering the modifications made for privacy in this chamber, she did take not that this soldier—a colonel, from the looks of him—was of a far more confident mindset than the nervous asari she had observed the other day. Either that, or this human could mask his fear a whole lot better. But what did he have to say that warranted such a discrete session like this?

The human approached the desk and did not wait for permission to sit. He took the chair in a fluid motion, quickly scooting up so that he could sit up straight, hands folded and perfunctory in front of him. Cirae could discern nothing from this man. No nerves. No anger. No laid-back attitude. He was as blank of a slate as they come.

Already she was intrigued at what this colonel had to say.

Another voice clicked through the loudspeaker, this time now a gruff and elder tone. "_State your name for the record._"

"Alliance Colonel Kaidan Alenko," the man said, embedded microphones in the desk picking his voice up perfectly.

Cirae nearly smacked herself in the head for being so dense. _Idiot!_ How could she not recognize Kaidan Alenko, former member of Commander Shepard's team? A gifted Alliance marine and a talented biotic, Kaidan Alenko had been the first of Shepard's core team since the trouble with the Reapers had begun. A veteran of countless battles, Kaidan was as perfunctory of a soldier as one could imagine, besides his old commander obviously. Aside from being modest to an annoying degree, one of Kaidan's core strengths was that he was a leader who knew how to delegate effectively. He was not a soldier after glory, his complete lack of an ego reinforcing that point, but rather getting the job done as efficiently as possible. It was safe to say that, among all the militaries in the galaxy, he was one of the most respected figures working today.

Already this was quite a few steps up from the meetings she usually had to sit through in congress, Cirae figured. The CCA was bringing in the heavy-hitters right at the outset while she had to settle for the scraps.

"_Thank you_," the voice over the loudspeaker intoned. "_We'll be keeping this short today, colonel. The Council has seen fit to compile a set of testimonies from noted military personnel on the nature of the ongoing conflicts. You're one member out of hundreds on our list. Under no circumstances are we to reveal the identities of your peers who have or will undergo the exact same experience as you right now. Please acknowledge if you understand._"

"I understand," Kaidan said crisply.

"_There is no media spectacle here today, as you can see, so there will be no florid opening statements to muddle through. Instead, we will proceed onto the matters at hand. Your legal counsel has advised this committee that you are able to speak freely with regards to the topic at hand today. Are there any mitigating circumstances that you can recall which would otherwise prevent you from addressing this committee?"_

The colonel shook his head. "No," was all he said.

Cirae, from her perch, rubbed her chin with a thumb as she awaited the slow peeling back of the curtain with what was to be the first question.

"_Very good. Then we'll proceed without further interruptions. To start off, colonel, please describe the extent of your experience in dealing with the influx of private military corporations—otherwise known as PMCs—in a combative capacity_."

Kaidan shifted in his seat, deliberating for a moment, before dealing his answer. "I've been involved in seven separate campaigns that have sent any private armies into combat either intentionally or unintentionally after Alliance forces. I still recall the names of these PMCs: Chimera, Interro, MaG-!, Star/Mern, X-Base, Land_High, and Vreckan. Each occurrence was the direct result of the corporations that had contracted these armies sending these forces to fight in illegal sectors, provoking conflicts."

"_What was your level of involvement in these campaigns?"_

"Strategic, sir. I was responsible for coordinating the efforts of the platoons under my command to fit within the plans my superior—General Nathan Sachar—had devised. I never went anywhere near the front lines."

Cirae nodded along with the flow of the conversation. While nothing new had been divulged to her yet, she was still a little puzzled to get the same sort of vibe from this conversation that she had received from her earlier stints in congress. She hoped that this oddly sort of detached line of questioning would pick up soon.

"_Yet you feel that you have seen enough to merit an opinion regarding the issue at hand?_" the voice pressed.

Kaidan's lips pursed for the briefest of moments, enough for Cirae to catch. "Can you specify as to which part you'd like me to recount my opinion on?"

What was said next was done so in such a matter-of-fact way it was like the entire committee expected the crux of the question to have been fairly obvious from the first syllable.

"_On whether it can be justified to allow the PMCs to continue their operations and if there is to be a solution we can quickly derive to stop the violence_."

Up in her booth, Cirae's jaw dropped at the complete naiveté of the question. "What… the… fuck?" she murmured to herself. No offense to the colonel, but why was this committee asking him for tips on how to cease this conflict while, at the same time, trying to figure out if there was a way for both entities to coexist peacefully? _Peacefully?_ That was the route they were going for? After all that had been done on PMCs' end?

Fortunately, Kaidan seemed to have a similar mindset as he gave a grim chuckle and glanced momentarily at his thumbs, which were starting to twiddle together in agitation. "A solution," he murmured.

"_Colonel, can you speak up? We need to have your voice clear to be able to—"_

"I _know_," he interjected. "I know. I'm just thinking. Thinking that it was barely after we finished up fighting the last galactic-scale war that we managed to get ourselves embroiled in a new one. A useless one. Our solution then was to fight back at all costs. But now? When it's our own countrymen taking up arms, desperate for money, total devastation is no longer an option."

"_Everyone on both sides knows this to be true, colonel. Which is why that the only sensible route is to adopt a peaceful resolution, to prevent the PMCs from overstepping their mandate_."

Despite the stiff and formal environment, Kaidan managed to crack an embittered smile as a tiny shake moved his head back and forth. Even at this distance, Cirae could tell that Kaidan had been rankled.

"Overstepping certainly is a great way to understate the laundry list of grievances that any watchdog organization would happily rattle off to all of you," he murmured, a cold fire reflected in his stare, eyes shifting with every second, unable to find another face for his annoyance to square off against. "I've walked upon the ruined battlefields left behind after fighting these PMCs. I've seen the piles of dead bodies in the wake of the devastation caused by their actions. I've sat in on dozens of sessions in which crowds of women had to recount, in painful detail, how they were sexually assaulted by PMC operatives occupying their cities. I've listened to the cries of mothers as they described how their children became caught in the crossfire. Many species. Many voices. All one problem. And the thing that upsets me the most? This was not some malignant and dispassionate force from outside our galaxy. This was created by _us_. Regular people. All the atrocities we have to endure now were created by our peers. We cannot blame anyone else for this mistake."

It was one thing to read about the heroes of the Normandy, but another thing to see them in person. Already, she found that she was liking Kaidan quite immensely, based on this performance. The colonel was frank and had no head for politics, based on his staunch refusal to water down his language, imparting the maximum effect. Clearly, he had an axe to grind with the politicians.

Kaidan took a breath, summoning his courage. "Just a year ago, after one particular battle, I had to tear a young turian daughter away from the corpse of her mother on a distant colony. PMCs had been infighting amongst the colonists for control of its nearby resources. Most of the casualties had been civilians. The Alliance had been called in to pacify the situation. The daughter had been clinging to me, screaming for her mother, in hysterics. This young child had to watch as her mother, walking in the streets one second, was decapitated in the next as a passing shell shot through the thoroughfare. She had been kneeling by her own parent's headless body, shell-shocked, for nearly an hour. That's the kind of depravity we are seeing grow unchecked." He paused, clenching his jaw, as if daring for the people in this congregation to let the words he was saying bounce off of them. "The child is still alive, to my knowledge, but I know that she will be traumatized from what she saw for the rest of her life. Because she saw something no kid should ever have to see. She's one story out of millions like her. And more stories like hers are being written every day."

"Not bad," Cirae said in admiration, while simultaneously feeling a cold sickness seep to her stomach upon listening to the sad tale. She had heard so many anecdotes like the one Kaidan had just recanted, but every time she could not help but feel a strong tensing sensation in her entire body—a full reaction of indignation towards the hatred that could still be conjured in the darkest parts of the galaxy.

Kaidan's own anger seemed mild in comparison to hers.

"The Council would have called for action had pirates from the Terminus invaded and raided the Inner Worlds," Kaidan continued, his tone growing more contemptuous. "Yet we allow the PMCs to operate freely, with impunity. Not only that, but they rent offices on Council worlds to use as their headquarters, operating under the guise of incorporated entities. This allows them to bolster their hiring, for them to gain more and more contractors at an unprecedented rate. The Alliance, meanwhile, is losing too many soldiers as a result of these skirmishes. We are throwing so many men and woman at this problem… but there are too many people out there desperate for credits that they far outnumber the amount of troops we have. Manpower is going to be an issue in the future, because we cannot hope to stem the flow of new bodies to these organizations. Not without help from the Council. The PMCs offer private citizens so much cash to join their organizations—in an era where steady jobs are hard to come by as a result of the last war destroying so much of the infrastructure, this particular occupation looks like a godsend for many."

"_And you are proposing what, exactly?_" The voice did not seem to be affected at all by Kaidan's impassioned ruminations.

"Not so much a proposal," Kaidan shrugged. "More like a reminder. A goal to set on the horizon. The Council has, in the past, broken up corporations that have been perceived to have had monopolies on certain items or services. In theory, the Council has that power to break up any company it wishes. So… what's preventing such a contingency from being enacted again? From my perspective, it seems like the simplest choice. Break up the PMCs. Liquidate them. Make it so they cannot legally reconstitute themselves and that they will fall apart in the following months, unable to sustain themselves."

He looked upon the hall, finding no hope of solitude, of agreement among him. Only the cold tide of blackness washing against him—a firm wall upon which his words died.

From where she sat, Cirae pummeled the darkened button to talk, but the console steadfastly refused to light up and to give volume to her words.

At the dais down below, Kaidan continued on, oblivious to perhaps the one supporter in the room with him.

"Though I suspect liquidation is not an option at the moment. I know how much lobbying these corporations perform to ensure their survival. Someone in my position… they'd have to have their head in the sand not to see the bigger picture. I'm aware at how much money they funnel to people in every form of government. State officials. Mayors. Representatives. Senators. Even councilo—"

The sound on Kaidan's mic abruptly cut off, leaving his jaw continuing to move, but no longer broadcasting his voice to the monolithic audience. To Cirae, it was as if the colonel had suddenly lost his voice.

"_Thank you, colonel_," the formless member said over the intercom. It sounded like the voice of a deity at this point. "_We're done_."

Kaidan looked like he had more to say, but a soft two-note chime rang throughout the auditorium and the lights upon the lower stage dimmed completely to black, encasing him in shadow. The session had apparently concluded.

The overhead fixture in Cirae's booth brightened, leaving her appraising the pitch black room in a semi-daze. She slumped in her seat, overwhelmed for the moment. So many things she had to say, but she had been denied the chance to say any of them in this forum. She knew this going in, as she was a mere auditor, but that still begged the even bigger question: if someone on her level, a mere junior representative had such misgivings throughout this entire meeting, why did any of the more experienced politicians not speak up? Surely they had to have caught the same implications that Kaidan had momentarily addressed in his speech.

Was she the only one very much concerned about this problem?

It seemed like she was the only one gifted with sight amongst a crowd of the blind. This was the Committee of Council Authority, one of the most powerful committees that produced the most effective leaders in this day and age. The CCA was known for enacting some of the most widespread and effective litigation in any governing body in the galaxy, yet they had frightfully skimped when it came to questioning Colonel Alenko, a momentous opportunity that had been squandered in the worst way possible. Even Cirae could not have figured out a way to waste the human's time so blatantly if her imagination had tried as hard as possible.

Was this what her sponsor had wanted her to see? They had to have been in this room with her, a member of this committee, otherwise Cirae would have never received an offer to sit in on a CCA meeting to begin with. Kaidan's testimony had been brief and rather limited (pathetically so) but that in of itself was an eye-opener. He had only been silenced when he had brought up the flow of money that had occurred between the PMCs and members of the government. Lobbying was not technically illegal as it fell into a gray area on Council worlds, but it was certainly a prelude to corruption if such money was used to have any illegal crimes overlooked. Had the PMCs paid off every single member of the CCA, or just the key people in charge of the committee? If that was true, how many more people were being bankrolled with PMC money in the Council? And who had opened their arms to receive the money?

"They've bought them all out," Cirae whispered to herself as she stewed in her seat, a dark look furrowing her brow. "We're all being used."

As much as Cirae wanted to believe that she was reading too much into things, deep down she knew that things below the surface were certainly not going according to plan. She wondered how easy it would be for a representative to sell themselves for money. What was the lowest amount that it would take to completely buy them? Cirae had never been a rich woman in her life, but she had never been hurting for cash either. She was satisfied with her lot in life and had made an effort to eschew any networking events that would rely on shilling herself for a few extra credits towards her reelection campaigns.

It was easy for her to push the hand offering opulence away.

But many people were not as strong-willed as her.

Still processing the dialogue exchanged during the hearing, Cirae got up to leave and head back to her office. Her expression was one of mild shock as she tried to figure out just how bad the corruption had infested the government, like a malignant mold, and if there was anything left to save before the wounds became gangrenous.

* * *

_Menhir  
__Captain's Cabin_

Korridon pushed the button upon the doorframe that led to Garrus' cabin. It glowed warmly at him and emitted a quiet bell-like sound upon the other side. He shuffled his feet, feeling somewhat anxious, as he trained his absorbing eyes upon the face of the door.

He did not have to wait long at all. The door slid open to allow him passage. "Come in," he heard Garrus say from beyond the partition. Korridon obliged in the next moment, although there was just the slightest hint of hesitation on his end.

As he stepped inside, Korridon immediately spotted Garrus sitting at the table in the lower section of his cabin. He appeared to be fiddling with something in one of his hands. A ring, it looked like. Glimmering and silver, ornate yet lacking any ostentatiousness. Garrus' concentration was entirely focused on it at the moment, a pensive slice of time in which only he could appreciate the subtleties the ring itself contained for him and only him. The captain turned the ring over in his fingers, the dryness of his skin causing scraping noises to emit as he lightly rubbed the cold surface. The moment passed and Garrus blinked, now seeming to realize that Korridon was standing in front of him. He gave a nod to his subordinate and clenched the ring in a hand before he stood and placed it deliberately upon the nightstand next to his bed, between a lamp and a chronometer. It sat underneath the glow of the soft light, looking strangely alone as the accompanying presence faded from its midst.

"You certainly arrived quickly," Garrus said, not yet retaking his seat, eyeing the younger turian.

Korridon had to tear his eyes from the floor to make contact with Garrus'. The captain had a very quiet sort of intensity about him, the sort that seemed to ravage his very flesh and delve deep into his core. Korridon felt a little uneasy about being here alone, but he soon realized that he was being ridiculous and was letting his nerves get the better of him.

"You asked to see me, sir," Korridon replied, hoping his delay was not too noticeable. "I figured that punctuality still fetches a high value today."

"A virtue already in short supply," Garrus agreed, finally gesturing for Korridon to sit, only doing so once the younger turian had obliged.

No more words were exchanged for a brief period of time. The two turians fixed each other with even gazes, keeping themselves composed, almost as if they were compiling the weight of silence that each beat imparted onto them.

"What did you want to discuss, sir?" Korridon said, perhaps a little more gruffly than he would have intended.

Garrus gave no tic. Not even his eyelids twitched. "I just wanted to gauge something before we left port and headed out. Gauge _you_, specifically. I've been told to not look at things in black and white all the time by someone with more knowledge than I could ever hope to obtain. Sometimes we just have to abide by the words of the wise."

Korridon was suspicious and he hunched slightly over the table, trying to appear a little bit more intimidating. It was not working, of course, because Garrus Vakarian was not one to be easily rattled. After what the captain had been through during the war? Intimidation on his end was not likely to come easily.

"This isn't a probing of my skillset," Korridon stated with determination, already cutting to the crux. "You want to know if I'm going to be a liability to you."

Garrus was impressed that Korridon seemed to be a quick study. Not much bluster to this one at all. Still, he still had a youthful rawness about him. Indignation came rapidly to him. No surprises, given his situation and his heredity.

"I don't think that I can make an assured determination on that right away," Garrus said honestly as he folded his hands under his chin, slightly propping his head up. "What do _you_ think is going to be the case?"

Korridon's reply was swift as it was blisteringly hot. "That your worries are misplaced. I won't be a liability to you, sir. I'm not at all like the rest of my family."

"You'll have to pardon me if your heritage might take a while for me to get over. Your uncle didn't exactly leave me with many happy memories."

"He betrayed you. He sold out your team for his own life. I know the story. I won't do that to you, sir. I'm ready to do my duty for this team to the absolute extent of my abilities."

Garrus appraised Korridon, searching for any cracks that would otherwise indicate a façade. But there was nothing like that to determine. The young man was deeply serious. An admirable quality, or a foolish one. Did Korridon even know what he had been selected for?

"You can probably understand my trepidation, at least," Garrus said. "I may have been able to put aside what Lantar Sidonis did to my team, but that doesn't mean I'll ever be able to forgive him. I've seen the cruel fate that awaits the victims of betrayal, corporal. I'm not keen on becoming one of them and I'm hoping that you have more of a spine than your uncle ever did."

"You don't have to worry about that, sir," Korridon said through a clenched jaw. He was keeping his composure but it was evident that Garrus' words were starting to wear on him. "I will never sell out my team."

Garrus paused before he lifted his hand in the air, as if struck by a thought. "I certainly hope so, because the price of betrayal goes both ways. When I last saw your uncle after tracking him halfway across the galaxy, he was a ruin of his former self. He was tormented every night—kept on dreaming of the dead. He was pale, sickly, and on the verge of suicide. Even though he survived the events of Omega without a scratch, he never really led a life like the one he had before. It got taken away from him too."

Now Garrus leaned forward, the glint in his eyes transformed into hardened steel. "But that's only a small comfort to his dead comrades. They're the only ones who can judge him now. They bore the brunt of the violence when the biggest gangs on Omega teamed up in a surprise attack on our base. They blew up the hideout—only four survived. Those four were tortured to death and I was sent the snuff films afterward as a warning. I saw… the people I fought with… cared about… being mutilated in all sorts of ways. There is no limit to the imagination when it comes out to dealing pain."

The look in Garrus' eyes deadened. "I saw one of my men get their head dipped in a vat of acid—his skin and eyes dissolved in the clear liquid, turning it bright red. Another had their limbs sawed off and was beaten to death with the severed appendages. The third was a woman who had her throat slit, a bag over her head, and was being raped simultaneously. They saved the most gruesome method for last survivor. They hung him by his bound feet and slowly bisected him with a carving saw from the groin down to his head. It took him quite a bit to die. The blood stayed in his head because he was hanging upside-down and that kept him conscious the entire time he was being bisected. He only died once the saw bit into his lungs. But by then…" Garrus trailed off as he seemed to appraise something in a void of nothingness, before he slowly blinked and regained awareness. "I saw it happen… but I can't describe how seeing images like that violates who you are. It destroys you… and wounds like that don't heal."

Korridon had been painfully rapt with attention as Garrus spoke, the golden glow present in his eyes somewhat faded as his body had tightened upon the hint of the tortures that hung over his head. He remained silent, unsure when was an appropriate moment to speak, until Garrus resumed and took the reins of the conversation once more.

"Corporal, the work that we have planned will provide us with enemies. Enemies that may have other methods in mind more sinister than the ones I just described. That's what could await you or your teammates should the worst come to pass. People will come after us. They're going to want us hurt. This isn't a course of action that I can sugarcoat any further, but all I want from you is the word you've already given. Your life for the team… and silence for our foes."

It was unclear if Garrus was expecting any affirmation from Korridon or not. For now, he would just have to settle for the fact that his words had sunken into the mind of the young turian, to spread their roots deep and far. Korridon raised his trembling head, jaw jittering open, teeth clicking together rapidly, and fixated his gaze upon Garrus. The repeated phrase would offer no respite to the captain. Only his intent and his actions.

The young corporal planned to prove both in short order.

This would suffice as Garrus' answer.

It seemed that Korridon was miles away by the distant look on his face. Garrus rose to offer the younger man a little more time to mull the consequences over until he heard him unexpectedly speak.

"He tried, at the end."

Garrus turned around to find Korridon staring up at him. "What was that?" he asked, not understanding.

"My uncle. He tried to make up for all the wrongs he had done in his life. I'll bet he was thinking of you in his last moments, captain. When he was embarking on his own suicide mission, I mean. Infiltrated an entire city on Palaven, infested with Reaper troops, just to detonate a planted nuke and deny the enemy a stronghold. He took out hundreds of thousands of their forces. Who knows how many he ended up saving?"

His attention momentarily flickering over to the ring he had deposited next to his bed, Garrus thought back to when he had let rage consume his actions and drive his intent. Black, crippling rage. Turning his world in shades of red, as if everything had been dipped in blood. It had been so easy to succumb to such temptations, but he had a good friend pull him back from that precarious ledge when it mattered.

In the nick of time, no less.

"It might have been enough," Garrus mused as he too found solace in the blank walls as a place to hone his sights on. "Enough for his attempt to have mattered."

Korridon waited for Garrus to say more, but it seemed the captain had gotten himself lost in his thoughts. He did not rise from his seat though, for fear that expectations were still placed upon him for the moment.

But that turned out to not be true, because Garrus provided him with a curt nod in his direction. "We can discuss more later. Wouldn't want to keep you from your duties."

Korridon got up and walked over to the door. He barely got five paces before Garrus spoke up again.

"Almost forgot, corporal. One more thing."

"Sir?" came his automatic reply as he turned around.

Garrus crossed his arms, keeping himself contained, but still retaining a vague looseness about him. "Your military dossier."

"What about it?" Cautious. Wary.

"I think you'd know as to what part I'd have questions on."

Korridon very nearly sighed out loud. One part of his life he wished that he could steer his course away from instead of being locked into a head-on collision.

"Care to tell me what happened?" Garrus asked.

"The Hierarchy locked my file out, right?"

"They prevented access on the broader details, yes. Not at all routine for the lone insubordination charge you received. If there's something you wish to tell me…"

Korridon looked like he would rather talk about anything other than this. Disgust filled his features but faded rapidly into a serene acceptance before a regretful yet determined mask hardened him. He shook his head so slightly, trying to rid himself of a stain that refused to be washed away.

He took a moment to compose himself. "I disobeyed a direct order."

Garrus had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. "Textbook definition of insubordination."

"I _hesitated_," Korridon's head whipped around, voice taking on an annoyed edge. "I… I didn't do my job at the exact moment I was told. I was ordered to eliminate an enemy a few years ago. I didn't. At least, not right away. But I did complete the objective. I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Others… didn't see it that way. Saw my moment of hesitation as a weakness."

"Hence the charge."

The facepaint upon Korridon seemed to glow the color of a violent wildfire as the younger turian's glare briefly turned feral. "I'm not a liability, captain."

"Words can't do much to convince me, I'm afraid," Garrus murmured almost apologetically.

Squinting his eyes in apprehension, Korridon's rusty nod became arthritic and tense. "Then I'll make sure to show you."

* * *

_Menhir__  
Med Bay_

Skye was hit by a blast of irritating noise as soon as she entered the medical wing of the _Menhir_. The interior of the room was harshly lit by the artificial lighting. Two specialty beds awaited near the door that led to the ship's data core. A desk rimmed the edge of the room right up to the thick windows and several banks of medical equipment occupied the opposite wall—all of it metallic and colored a creamy white. It did not appear that there was a speck of dust anywhere. The entire room seemed to glisten.

One of the beds was occupied by Grunt's large frame. The krogan was tall enough that his feet touched the floor, remarkable considering that the bed had a particularly high frame. Next to him, busying himself with a routine checkup of his patient, was Sam, holographic lights darting around his head while several brilliantly lit panels danced in the background, projecting a bouquet of images pertaining to Grunt's vitals. Blood pressure, muscle structure, skeletal composition, all played in a vivid tableau that threatened to overwhelm the more feeble-minded with an influx of information.

What was abnormal about the entire scene was the fact that Sam had gone to the trouble of selecting music to serve as background noise. Only, it was not exactly the sort of stereotypical sonic wallpaper that Skye had experience with whenever she frequented a med bay. Instead of a melodic symphony full of classic orchestral instruments, Sam's music was loud, tonally rough, filled with crunchy guitars, wildly flailing drums, and a male singer who was trawling the very depths of his vocal range to project a hellish wail, rendering the vocals completely incomprehensible. It was… painful, to say the least, yet Sam was nodding along to the rhythm like he was _enjoying_ the sound.

Sam saw Skye coming and he gave a confused blink as he saw the woman stumble towards him. "I don't have you on my schedule for another two hours, Skye."

"I'm just looking for someone," Skye said, wincing as the music reached a particular crescendo. "I've been all around this ship and can't find—… what the _hell_ is this music, anyway?!"

"This?" Sam shrugged, not at all perturbed to the woman's bewilderment. "Personal playlist. A little bit of classic rock. Not to your tastes?"

"Honestly, I think it fucking sucks."

Sam shrugged again and scratched at his thick salt-and-pepper beard, looking a little miffed. "Everyone's a critic."

Skye's ears felt like they were beginning to bleed. She winced and dug into one of them with her little finger, as if that would help clear it. "Just how 'classic' is this crap, anyway?"

"About a couple of centuries."

"Wow, grandpa, you ever think about listening to something a little more current?"

"Can't," Sam shook his head as he waved a datapad around Grunt's hide, looking for abnormalities while being able to carry on a conversation at the same time with complete ease. "I've tried the music popular with the youths today. Never been able to stand it."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a man out of your time?" Skye commented, noting that the broad-shouldered and tall human tended to eschew many of the traditional quirks that accompanied medical professionals in their field—this included the dress code, where most doctors confined themselves to form-fitting jumpsuits, Sam preferred to dress himself in baggier clothing which included a blinding white lab coat that drooped all the way down to the middle of his calves.

Sam snorted, momentarily abandoning his duties as a half-smirk crossed his face. "You certainly wouldn't be the last to say so."

Seeing Skye's pained expression, Sam finally decided to take pity on the woman. He looked down at his datapad and rapidly made a few gestures upon the glass face. In the next instant, the music stopped and Skye sighed in relief as the assault on her eardrums ended.

"I was enjoying that," Grunt rumbled in disappointment now that peace and quiet were allowed to reign supreme.

Incredulous, Skye whirled to face the krogan. "Don't go taking his side!"

"Ah, ah," Sam clucked as he waggled a finger at the woman. "If it calms the patient, that's what it's going to be. Grunt just happens to like music with an aggressive edge. When it's your turn, I'll be sure to make a playlist of music that is more to your tastes. God knows it's going to be rather sedative to the both of us."

Grunt's ice-blue eyes tilted minutely in their sockets over in Skye's direction. "He was making mindless babble about media criticism and prose before you walked in. Fair warning."

"I'll keep myself prepared," Skye nodded as she bit back a grimace. "Has anyone seen Roahn?"

"Yeah, she's over in the data core," Sam replied as he buried his nose in his datapad again, giving a dismissive wave in the proper direction.

Skye looked back and forth from the door that apparently separated her from the person she had spent the last ten minutes scouring this ship for. "You mean she was in there this whole time and you didn't tell me?"

Sam finally looked up from the tablet in his hands, confusion overtaking him. "Why would I have told you where Roahn was, unprompted?"

"I said I was looking for her!"

"No, you said you were looking for _someone_. You did not give a name. I'm not a goddamn clairvoyant, so how could I have known that Roahn was the lucky person of the day?"

Caught between the two squabbling humans, Grunt slouched in his seat, his expression becoming more and more dour as he tried to filter out the annoying noises the two were making. The krogan uttered a rumbling sigh, his hands gripping the edges of the bed and distorting the frame somewhat as he tried to find ways to distract himself in the interim.

Exasperated, Skye threw up her hands. "Who _else_ on this ship would I be looking for?!"

"_Oh, for fuck's sake_." The doctor finally turned, his eyes cranked open in an appalled stare as he bit through each syllable in a vicious manner. "I honestly have no idea who would be the first person you'd look to find, Skye. Right now, I'm a little too busy to care. You've now specified that you were looking for Roahn. I've now told you where she is. That's it. Bang. Done. _Finito_."

"You need to work on your bedside manner," Skye pointed a finger as she turned to leave.

"My wife tells me the same thing," Sam drawled just as the door closed behind the woman.

Skye breathed out in relief as the sweet solitude of silence filled her world in the data core of the _Menhir_. The rapid hotness of her previous bout was already starting to wear off—she was now shivering, and for good reason. The data core was dramatically colder than the rest of the rooms of the _Menhir_—the quantum supercomputers housed in this area were kept at low temperatures to prevent them from overheating. Overclocking the drives was a real danger, because these machines had the capability to run at 100 centillion theoretical FLOPS, more than enough processing power to have powered a 21st century Earth a million times over.

As Skye breathed out, she became aware that she was expelling a fine steam that curled and became vapor before disappearing into nothingness. The quiet hum from the computers now crept into her ears, an intense vibration surging through her like a bolt of lightning. The core was nearly pitch black, with only the winking lights on the drive faces acting as a pathway for her to abide by. She craned her neck between the two rows of the databanks, finding the person she sought standing at one of the consoles, dutifully tapping away at a holographic keyboard that shone a vivid and lustrous magma color back into her face, searing across the shelf ice hue of her visor.

"You know that doctor we've got is a gigantic asshole, right?" Skye initiated, wryly chuckling, as she approached Roahn.

"That's just how he acts," Roahn said, not taking her eyes off the screen. "Don't take it personally."

"Oh, so you've known him a while?"

"Since I was nine. His daughter and I have been friends for a long time. That's why he's a little more… manageable with me."

Fingers continued to glide over the keys, inputting in lines of code surrounded by command brackets. Skye watched Roahn work for a few more seconds, trying to decipher what the quarian was trying to achieve before giving up on her own cognizance to figure it out.

"Last minute calculations?"

Roahn waited until she finished a new input line before responding. "Running a few projections. Trying to see if I can trawl the available databases to see if I can predict where Aleph will be going next. I've plugged in the two known sightings: Earth and Luna, and now I'm trying to connect our ship's systems to the other governmental directories to see if there are any clues between them. Patterns, connections with the staffs, information about the vaults hit, that sort of thing."

Skye looked from the determined quarian's steeled gaze and slowly dipped down towards her prosthesis, the limb that was right in front of her. The human stared helplessly at the metallic appendage, unable to tear her eyes away from the barrier that separated alloy and flesh. Just the thought of that enviro-suit curling around a stump was enough to make Skye feel a definite pang. Yet the silvery fingers flowed with such grace, with barely an artificial halting to their movements, that she could easily be tricked into believing that the limb itself was organic to begin with.

"Aleph…" she murmured. "Was that the man who… who took your arm?"

That was enough to finally get Roahn to stop typing. She looked down at her hand, now tightened into a fist, hearing the hydraulics hiss in protest. Around her, the ship seemed to groan from an unseen effort. The tips of her fingers scraped against the hardness of her palm—an eerie sound. She still did not grace Skye with her eyes just yet, as they warbled behind the curvature that protected her face from the outside elements.

"It was not by his hand," she finally said, "but he did give the order."

"He had you maimed instead of killing you outright. The bastard did this for pleasure."

Roahn's eyes squeezed shut as she tried to force the strange sensations, the dulled nerves, of matter that existed where her sensation did not truly reach. The threshold between blood, bone, and solid alloy could not be completely breached.

"I don't know why he did what he did," Roahn admitted, hating the words that tumbled from her mouth, revealing the depths of her ignorance. "But it's something I fully intend to find out in the end."

"Roahn… I'm so sorry."

Despite the earnestness of the words, they merely served to bounce off of Roahn, not at all connecting.

"I'm still hanging on," the quarian said, very nearly flitting her gaze in the human's direction. She spread out her fingers before flexing each one in turn. Deftly. Fluidly. "I've almost gotten used to it."

Skye kept staring at the prosthesis with a growing anxiety. "Does it hurt?"

The hand found its way into a fist again. "From time to time."

"Phantom pain?"

A brief nod. A sad acknowledgement, simple in its message but radiating the emotion in violent waves.

Skye sighed again in longing, now putting herself in Roahn's shoes, wondering what it must have felt like, to have the solid and cruel bite of sharp metal teeth tear through flesh, grind through the bones of her arm, snapping the limb off in a blood-soaked second. What must have the sound been like? The noise of teeth on raw meat? And of Roahn's screams? A faint prickle of the imagined agony brimmed at the exact same spot on Skye's arm, the manifestation of her empathy reaching out and pulling back translatable stimuli. She winced and clutched at herself, the freezing cold room helping to dull the sensations somewhat.

The limb now hung limp at Roahn's side, empty and hollow. Skye's eyes remained focused on it. The urge to reach out and take the hand in her own beckoned. To provide comfort when it appeared to be sorely needed. The quarian looked so lost, almost frail. A far cry from the strong and determined woman she had known for years. But the perceived meekness dissipated away as the look in Roahn's eyes hardened, unearthing back up the proud warrior that had been forged on the scattered and shattered plains of the chaotic skirmishes. Her fingers gave a singular twitch and rose back up, robbing Skye of the moment. Two quick taps upon the keyboard and the console shut down—whatever program Roahn had been running in that time had apparently failed to come up with anything conclusive.

Roahn looked like she was about to leave, so Skye took her chance. She stepped forward and placed her hand upon the quarian's shoulder, feeling the thin muscle tense over hard bone through her suit. The silence grew rigid, the hums of the databanks creeping up into a growl. Roahn did not resist against the strong arm that gently held her in place—if she wanted, she could have shaken Skye's hand off easily, but that would have required her to make a determined effort to flee.

It did not seem that she wanted to leave just yet. Not from what Skye could tell.

"If you ever need someone," she whispered to the quarian. "You know I'll always be there."

It was difficult to tell what the resulting look Roahn gave the human was supposed to signify, as her visor was only one of several masks that concealed her true feelings. A labored breath exited from the quarian's vocabulator. A careful inhalation followed. Bones of the spine slowly furrowing as they straightened. Piercing eyes the color of melted pearls carved holes through Skye now as Roahn kept her guard rigid and out in front, unwilling to let the animal of her true inhibitions tear through the carefully constructed semblances she had erected for herself.

It was a mask formed from a deep and painful wound, one that left no lasting scars that Skye could tell, yet she still was able to ascertain its existence nonetheless.

The moment was broken when Roahn raised her prosthesis up, making a pointed effort to gently grasp her three metallic fingers around Skye's wrist. The human let out a breath as the cold surface of the hand finally touched her skin—so different from the warm and loving body she had touched in the past. Deliberately, Roahn lifted Skye's hand off of her shoulder and moved it to the side, her eyes never leaving the human's. Imperceptibly shaking, she defiantly raised her chin a few degrees and gave a solemn blink.

Her next words chilled the rest of Skye that the surrounding temperature had not yet been able to reach.

"Only _if_ I trust you to be that someone."

* * *

The next minute yielded a rather sanguine Roahn traversing the short route from the data core back to her cabin. She had left Skye back where she had originated once it became clear that neither had anything else to say to each other for the moment. A relief at least—Roahn had been getting a little agitated at the tail end of their conversation. One could only stomach so much time in the human's presence.

She had passed Sam, who was still performing his routine checkup on Grunt, while apparently giving the krogan an earful on some of the odd topics that tended to crop up in the doctor's mind every now and then. Today's discussion was apparently fixated upon bad writing for sex scenes in fiction, a topic that Sam was prattling on with the demented air of someone who had taken too much of their time considering the subject to begin with. Grunt was a disinterested audience, his face remaining utterly impenetrable and detached as Sam droned, with the human failing to realize that he was essentially talking to himself. As much as Roahn wanted to stay and listen to the ramblings of the man in the background with some amusement, she felt like she could use half an hour to wind down and get her head back together.

Yes, a time to decompress sounded like just what she needed.

She was stretching her arms behind her back as she walked through the auto-doors that allowed her to enter her personal space, making a little yawn as she did so. However, she was a bit too distracted from both her previous talk with Skye and the oh-so relaxing thought of taking a few moments to lie down that she failed to ascertain that someone had been occupying the chair at her desk already.

"We haven't even left port yet and you're already getting busy," a voice cut through the shadow.

"_Gah!_" Roahn yelped as she had a momentary flash of a large figure with a rounded cheval helmet lurking in the corner before she faded past such ridiculousness as she realized who she was with. With annoyance, she flicked on the lights and glared at the man in the chair. "Dad!"

"Thought you would have been a little more alert," Shepard said as he momentarily held up a hand to ward off the new glare from the lights. "My mistake."

Her heart rate already beginning to slow, Roahn gave a huff as she tossed her pistol on the bed in a blithe maneuver. She tugged at a corner of her _sehni_, straightening herself out after her initial lurch. "Just goes to show that your fatherly intuition is not always accurate."

"It's always needed fine-tuning," Shepard agreed as his eyes tracked Roahn while she maneuvered throughout her room, performing some light organizing and checking a few messages on her terminal. "I've never proclaimed to be an expert on how to empathize with you."

"Yet I can still give you credit for making an attempt," Roahn mused as she powered down her console, finding all of her missives to be spam.

"I guess that's all I can hope for."

Roahn slowly turned around, her arms now crossed over her chest. "Dad, why are you here?"

Shepard sadly grinned as he crossed a leg, connecting the tips of his fingers together as he slowly reclined in his seat. "Imagining that I'm harboring any ulterior motives?"

"No offense, but when you want to just talk to me, that's the first thing you usually indicate when we're alone like this."

Laughing, Shepard had no choice but to tilt his head in acknowledgement. "That predictable, am I?"

"We all have our quirks."

"No doubt. Of course, that conveniently rings true going the other way. You see, I do admit that I've been imperfect with you, though god knows I've tried my best, but I have been your father for every second of your life. One tends to pick up on some familiar motifs when raising a kid, be it reflections in their attitude, their drive towards similar goals…" Shepard's smile faded into a pursed line as the warmness in his eyes dropped down a few degrees, "…and the people they interact with. The people they care about."

Roahn rocked back as if she had been levelled with an invisible punch. A solid sphere of pressure seemed to explode in her chest, reeling her with its forceful concussion. Shepard did not need to state out loud what he was suggesting, because Roahn knew quite well that her father was not one for blind accusations.

_He knows. He knows about Skye._

Slowly, Roahn sat down upon her bed, her fingers trailing at the edges of the sheets. Forlorn for a few long moments, Roahn's parched mouth opened and closed in bewilderment, her enviro-suit seemingly tightening all around her as she struggled to take a complete breath.

"How did you find out?" she whispered, eyes scraping along the floor to meet her father's. Outright denial was not going to work here. Imperfect or not, Shepard had a knack for sniffing out bullshit.

Shepard now uncrossed his legs leaned forward, keeping his hands clenched together. "Since I first saw you two in the comm room together. You kept yourself at a deliberate distance from Skye while she couldn't keep her eyes off you. There was too much of an effort on your end to keep yourself at arm's length, which was rather odd behavior towards someone who was supposedly a stranger."

_Keelah_. Roahn bunched her _sehni_ up near the back of her helmet as she agonizingly shut her eyes. "Who have you told about this?" she asked, the bubble in her chest growing as the pressure of cavitation threatened to burst, fearing the answer.

"No one," was the soft reply.

Roahn lifted her head in disbelief, hardly daring to believe it. "You haven't told _anyone?_"

"Why?" Shepard shrugged. "I'm not one for gossip. Besides, it's not my place to go over the head of my superior with something like this. I'd only do that if I thought that it would have an adverse effect on the team—I'd like to think that I have the ability to give my daughter the benefit of the doubt _before_ I go spreading what could be nothing more than smoke and vapor."

A little gratitude went a long way. Roahn let out a breath she had not realized that she had been holding. It was so easy to forget that she technically outranked her father on this ship. For her whole life, she had been drifting in his shadow—yet content with her position—but to have it put into practice, for him to affirm being subordinate to her… it still felt like a fever dream. The impossible made possible.

"So…" Shepard's tone turned conversational, "…you're involved with this Skye?"

"_Was_," Roahn automatically corrected, the words tumbling out of her mouth, her reluctance to discuss this aspect of her life with her father be damned. "I was involved with her. Years ago."

"So now things are complicated right off the bat," Shepard noted, mostly to himself, his expression growing unreadable. "And Garrus doesn't know?"

Roahn shook her head. "No," she whispered, almost pleading. "I… I haven't told him. Dad, I know he's your best friend, but can you please not say anything—"

"—I won't say a word," Shepard cut in before his daughter could finish. "As I said before, it's none of my business to hold this over your head. But I do want to know why _you_ did not think it necessary to inform Garrus of this development."

The quarian did not answer the question, instead blankly choosing to stare out into space, the pressure in her chest refusing to leave as it ground heavily against her stomach with every three beats her heart gave out. The cutting orb of tension fed upon her anguish, allowing that creature of fear to peer forth from its hiding spot once more.

"You know that if this ends up becoming an issue," Shepard continued, "the responsibility is going to rest on someone's shoulders."

"I'm well aware of that," Roahn snapped, eyes glaring out from a corner of her visor as her head dangled in thought.

Shepard rubbed his hands together, allowing a good pause to pass to give Roahn some time to simmer before proceeding. "This isn't a mutual thing between you now, is it? No, you're too contentious. You'd be more at ease otherwise if you shared the same feelings that our newest recruit apparently has for you."

"Dad…"

"What happened between you two? What caused this rift, Roahn?"

A brief darkness entered Roahn's eyes. The memories that her father sought to uncover had threatened to drown her for years now. For this long she had kept them at bay, only for them all to slip through her fingers as prying minds entered her world. The battle-scarred human could only stare at his similarly maimed quarian daughter, pressed against the invisible barrier she had erected to keep him at arm's length, a mournful force field that protected her from the outside, even those that she loved.

The encroaching black faded from her gaze within the next blink, warm color seeping into her pupils, swimming in the milky hues. Her joints felt fiery, arthritic, but it was a pain of reminder, keeping her grounded as she drew forth the stature that befitted a commander.

"Skye and I…" she began," …we met during Basic. The first week of our training with the Defenders. We struck up a friendship immediately—we were very much the same: driven, proud, confident in our abilities. I saw a lot of myself in her and… and I was attracted to that."

Shepard kept his expression neutral the entire time, not at all projecting his judgment in order to keep Roahn at ease.

"We started a relationship… and for a few months, it was nice. I felt… relaxed around Skye. At peace. She was someone who could never fail to make me laugh. Someone I could trust to have my back at all times. She was just a sweet and kind person. I fell for her hard. I really did."

The wistful look in Roahn's eyes returned and she briefly detached them away from her father's magnetic gaze. "But one night… I was patrolling the halls of the barracks—firewatch duty—and…" she took a needed swallow, "…and I saw Skye stepping out from one of the dorms. Not our dorm. It belonged to a man we both knew. Her hair was askew, her face was flushed, and her clothes were wrinkled. She didn't even try to hide what she had just done. We spotted each other in the hall almost instantly—Skye knew that I knew in that one moment. There was just this… this horrible silence that seemed like roots had been growing out of my feet, keeping me planted down to the ground."

Roahn sighed, but her voice remained clear. "To her credit, she didn't deny a thing. There was no yelling between us. Just a quiet, very melancholy feeling of hopelessness. I remember wanting to scream in her face for betraying my trust, but I could see that there was no point to it. The guilt had already settled on her face. But by then, it was too late. Nothing could repair my trust in her after that. I requested a new dorm, moved my stuff out, and told Skye that I never wanted to see her again. That was the last moment I figured I would remember of her."

"Until now," Shepard said, giving a slight shake of his head. "And after all that, what was going through your head when you found out Skye was going to be a part of Umbra? Why did you let it get to this point?"

Again, Roahn could not muster an answer, at least not one that would make sense to Shepard. Hell, it still did not even make all that much sense to herself. Was it that faint dying ember of hope that refused to be extinguished within her? Or simply a foolish impulse that had consumed her mind at a critical second?

Why could she not see the truth for something that should have been blaringly obvious?

"We're both adults," Roahn mustered, voice now raspy. "Professionals. Whatever past we shared… it's something that we can put aside. It won't get in the way of our mission, I can promise you that."

He did not believe her. She could tell right away. It was that miniscule tilt of his eyebrows that gave it away. That, and the slow and thoughtful blink he gave as he processed her response. Trying to figure out his own riposte, if he should even deliver one.

But Shepard did not press her, almost as if he knew that her poorly fabricated lie was already serving to tear her up from within. He would let her get away with this only for her guilt to be the one to deliver the final blow. A slow torture in lieu of the quick knife. This was a pain that Roahn could merely add to her ever growing pile. She still had the strength to hold it all back.

But that dam, if the pain continued to grow, would be doomed to burst one day.

"In any case," Shepard said, relaxing into a more informal stance as he stood from his chair, wincing as he did so a bit too quickly—old injuries and afflictions all taking their toll on him, one acid bite at a time, "you'd probably be keen to avoid another of my lectures again, so I'll simply leave you with this one piece of advice: don't let it get too complicated. With this sort of thing, you can't afford to be in a place between two emotions. You've got to go all in on one way or the other."

Shepard then glanced back and forth surreptitiously before leaning over, making Roahn feel like she was a conspirator in a dastardly plot. "If this was a ship in one of the proper militaries, I'd probably advise you to cut your ties altogether. Just my two credits, speaking from experience."

That gave Roahn pause, a bit of playful bewilderment entering her expression as she cocked an eyebrow to display her incredulity. "You _do_ know that you and mom were in a relationship when you were _with_ the Alliance, right?"

The elder human creaked a sly smile at her as he touched the tip of his nose, an impish gesture. "We got together when I was under the employ of Cerberus. I never started anything under the _Alliance_. Besides, it took me dying to have some things put into perspective. I'm hoping that your situation finds an easier resolution." He moved toward the door, intent on giving Roahn some privacy, and patted her shoulder reassuringly as he passed her by. "Do as I say, not as I do."

"Because I've certainly done _that_ in the past," Roahn sarcastically bit back.

"I'll still trust you to make the decision you feel to be right," Shepard shrugged before he finally departed the room.

After her father had left, Roahn finally allowed herself to collapse, spread-eagled, upon her bed to stare upwards toward the ceiling. Despite the respite she felt from his absence, an atomically small part of herself wished that he could have remained, to allow her one of the few ports where she could hope to dock her true feelings without reprisal. Only he could parse through the detritus and sieve out the core of her emotional state. He had been the only person that could.

And yet she had been maniacally compelled to _lie_ to her father.

Yes, she _had_ lied about the reasons behind letting Skye join the team, but even that decision was still indecipherable to Roahn. Did she think that she could be easily able to pick things up where the two of them had left off? The number of positive memories overshadowed the negative ones… even if the amount of heartbreak offset the gains she had made in the relationship department. Skye certainly seemed willing to jump at the chance. But that decision remained ever elusive to Roahn. Was she thinking logically, with her brain instead of the rest of her body? In her heart, she knew that was not the case. Still, she had to admit that she had missed Skye in that amount of time.

Sighing in frustration, Roahn rolled over on her side. Her room was painstakingly bare, she noted. It had been constructed to an impeccable degree, with not a poly-alloy panel out of place. It had no character, nothing to define its inhabitant. Even the ceiling had been completed, with no webs of wires free to dangle from haphazard holes. It was bafflingly devoid of life. Back in Basic, the instructors had at least allowed the recruits to throw up holographic posters that concerned their interests at the time: films, movies, bands, even the latest racing ship models. Here, she had not even thought about giving her own private space a hint of personalization. The thought had never crossed her mind until now.

As it was inevitable, Roahn's thoughts turned back to Skye. She had been the one who had provided the majority of decorations to their dorm and not Roahn. While the quarian had supplied a few holo-posters of the sort of archaic yet endearing hard rock bands loyal to the human homeworld, Skye had offered brief moving images from films stretching across all the corners of the galaxy—the human was a film buff. A smorgasbord of astonishing images, each implying at a great story in their unlocking. Roahn had been interested enough to inquire and Skye had, much to her excitement, led Roahn on a spiritual journey that involved long nights binging the works of her favorite directors: Nevrex, Malick, Evyros, Shi-Ahn, Jodorowsky, and Gray. Soon, Roahn had all their filmographies memorized, thanks to the persistence of her dormmate.

Skye could certainly be unrelenting when she set her mind to a certain task. It was why Roahn had taken a liking to her upon their first meeting. An extraordinarily willful person, Skye had exuded this raw gravity that seemed to suck in one's attention the more time they spent around her. Roahn had been entranced at first sight. The human was respectful enough to accept personal boundaries, but if she detected any wavering in one's convictions (and she was an expert at sniffing those out) she would prod and prod and prod until they would eventually snap and give in.

_What sort of wavering could Skye see in me now?_ Roahn wondered as she moved to lie on her back once more. She interlaced her fingers atop her stomach as she elicited a murmuring noise of disappointment. _What could she find that I cannot see within myself?_

Their initial meeting seemed to have been borne out of chance. No matter how many times Roahn replayed the scene in her head, she could find no indication that anything of its nature had been manufactured or designed to lure her in.

Happenstance. It strikes at the most unpredictable of times.

_It had been on the soil of Thessia. Flat plains in all directions. Ancient woods breaking up the horizon. Parched grass recovering from an area scorched by laser fire. Broiling hot sun overhead, baking the ground and breaking off sheets of dust that coated the ground._

_Shuttles had packed waves of recruits to the brim and had tumbled down from planetary orbit, separated from the embrace of their mother ship. They had landed far from the major cities, ensuring that their objective would commence with as few distractions as possible. Roahn had been part of this cadre that had endured the short but claustrophobic trip. She remembered blinking briefly in pain when the doors opened to let her and her comrades disembark, her visor unable to automatically darken in time to a shade dim enough to protect her eyes._

_This was where the first stage of Defender training was located. _

_Trial 1: the Gauntlet._

_An obstacle course several kilometers long, designed to test the mettle of those who wished to join the ranks of the Council Defenders. A river of mud cascading from one end of the field to the other, cutting through a forested path, to finally terminate upon the crests of a sea of sand dunes many miles away. A bonding exercise—many of the obstacles could be scaled alone but a good portion of them required teamwork to surpass quickly. A cadre of rope climbs arranged in geometric shapes beckoned as the beginning of this exercise—the recruits would have to haul themselves through this section both by climbing and hanging from the ropes as the angles gradually became steeper. There were metal arm swings that required the utmost physicality to traverse, tight crawls through tubes filled halfway with freezing water, maneuvering through trenches where the bottoms were complete quagmires, swimming through lakes so cold that it felt like your lungs were going to burst with only a grate hovering over the surface to allow only half an inch of breathing room, metallic poles that had to be used to vault over gullies, pits of fire that expelled choking ash that had to be sprinted through, as well as many more feats of strength that were designed to push even the fittest recruit to their absolute limit._

_On top of that, there would be drill instructors patrolling the boundaries of the course, firing practice rounds above the recruits' heads every so often to keep their adrenaline up._

_The entire experience, despite its inherent toughness, had looked like fun to Roahn. She had done similar courses back when she had been at the academies on Rannoch and had an obstinate mindset instilled into her by her father. Endurance and the drive to complete the task had been scorched into her brain—there was no way that she would give up from the objective unless some grievous circumstances befell her._

_The instructors had lined the recruits up into two long rows. They then told the members at the front of the lines to start the course, with the next individuals being allowed to proceed in ten second intervals._

_Roahn was sixth in her line and she did not take off at a mad dash right at the outset like most of the other recruits. In contrast, she proceeded at a steady jog, not intent on wasting her breath in the first few minutes. She clambered over the first rope course with ease, although she had deliberately made sure that her pace was slow and collected. She ignored the stares that some of the other recruits were giving her as they passed her by (irascible from having a quarian in their midst?)—she knew the value of saving her strength until the final push. It would serve her well throughout the day._

_The theory quickly proved her right, as Roahn's steady push eventually caught her up to the pack leaders who were now struggling and wheezing after their overzealous efforts to get to the front of the line. Her breathing barely variated from the constant and stable pattern she had started out with. Cardio-wise, she barely felt fatigued._

_Four obstacles were conquered in relatively short order. By her count, she was now in fifth place out of two hundred. While this was not a race, Roahn did allow a bit of a competitive streak to infiltrate her mind, keeping her firmly focused on her task. At the very least, she wanted to finish in a high enough place to be noticed. If anyone was going to have a problem with her amongst her fellow soldiers, it would certainly not be for her lack of an athletic ability._

_Roahn jogged around a wooded corner, her boots splashing up mud and dirtied water as she kept to the tracks of the people who had traversed this section already. A few native birds chirped angrily at her as she passed by—a territorial display or simply annoyed from the presence of the recruits. A fine layer of sweat clung to her skin under the enviro-suit. The temperature was starting to increase._

_The plains had entered a nearby forest and the trail soon began to drift downward towards a thin corridor, a slight trench cut between a tangle of ferns and bushes. The man-made path here was L-shaped as Roahn descended nearly a meter below the earth. A small staircase guided her slight ascension to surface level, where a wooden wall greeted her, guiding her to move around it on the left to the next challenge._

_Cautious, Roahn slowed her gait and peeked around the corner._

_The four people in front of her had all been bunched up at this next obstacle. A tall ramp, perhaps two stories high, shot from the ground—a barricade to be overcome. The ramp started at a slight incline but quickly increased in gradient until the last few feet were nearly vertical. The surface was slippery and tough to find purchase on. The leading recruits had found trouble with trying to scale the obstacle, but making matters worse were the two instructors on the sidelines, atop a rise with a clear view of the ramp, casually pumping a few errant stun bullets into the soldiers, in no way permanently harming them but the discharge from the non-lethal bullets was painful and enough to make their affected muscle groups lock up and grow numb for a few seconds. The recruits groaned and rolled around on the filthy ground, their discomfort preoccupying them from proceeding._

_Roahn stayed where she was for a moment, trying to analyze the problem ahead and to figure out the one route that would offer safe passage. This was interrupted, however, when she heard splashing noises emit from behind her—the next runner. From the rapid pace, it did not sound like they were going to slow once they rounded the wall. They would end up getting stuck just like the unfortunate few that had preceded them._

_Just as this person passed Roahn by, she reached out her hand and grabbed them by the wrist. The recruit, a human woman, gave a tiny shriek as she found herself suddenly being yanked back. Roahn had to dig her feet in the mud as she hauled the woman behind the barrier, her movements gentle so that she could convey to this person that she did not intend any aggressiveness._

"_You're not going to make it out there alone," Roahn said as the two of them caught their breath. "The trainers will shoot you down like the others. It'll take you all day to get past the ramp."_

_The human flipped her bangs out from her eyes. Roahn found herself staring. The scarlet color of the woman's hair was an immediate draw—vivid hues as if from raging wildflowers. Warm mahogany eyes stared back at Roahn, briefly suspicious of the quarian, trying to decipher ulterior motives. Roahn figured that the two of them were about the same age—early twenties—judging by how gracefully maturity and youth blended upon the human's face. Pale skin for a human, though. A quality of the people that occupied the portions of their homeworld closer to the poles?_

_Whatever trepidations the young human harbored swiftly dissipated as she too took a cautious glance in the direction of the impediment blocking their path. "That ramp's got a high-friction surface near the top. It'll hold us in our position if we fall… if we have someone else nearby to steady ourselves upon." The human then flipped a smile towards the quarian, her voice light yet husky. "Thinking of pairing up for this?"_

_Roahn shrugged. "This isn't a competition. There's no reason for us to fight amongst ourselves."_

"_Suppose I just want the satisfaction of coming in first?"_

"_I guess we'll see just how far that gets you," Roahn lifted her hands away in a show of faith. "I'm not stopping you from setting out by yourself. I just think that the both of us will have an easier time of this if we stick together. Unless if you think that you're capable enough to take on the rest of the course all alone…"_

_The human's smile widened, cat-like, as she weighed the pros and cons in her head. There was a rather affable quality about this person that intrigued Roahn, as if she had the tendency to live her life to its fullest extent._

"_Partners, eh?" the human asked before making a nearly invisible shrug. "Perhaps we can try this out. Just don't slow me down and we'll be fine."_

"_Believe me," Roahn lightly growled as she stepped forward, tightening a hand against one of the human's arms, feeling the surprisingly tough bulk of muscle underneath, "you will be wasting your time if you worry about me. If anything, I'll be more concerned about you slowing me down."_

_The human laughed. "Feisty, huh? Hah, you're a good egg there, quarian. Maybe I won't be so quick to underestimate you in the future."_

_Roahn could not help but tighten a faint grin at the praise, already a little surprised that she had made a friend so easily and under such odd circumstances._

"_Well, you don't need to call me 'quarian' all the time. I'd much prefer to be called by my actual name, unless you wouldn't mind if I referred to you as 'human' for the rest of the day." She stuck out her hand, a practiced maneuver that her father had shown her when she was young, the first step towards making an impression between humans. "I'm Roahn."_

_The human looked at the offered hand and back up to Roahn's face. She squinted her eyes, trying to peer through the nebulous blue barrier that kept the quarian's face sealed away from everyone else. But the human did not seem to be searching for facial features past the cloudy mist of glass. She was peering deeply, scanning for Roahn's intent, to see if her emotions were all broadcast entirely through her blinding eyes, the visor making her color come out to be of the purest aether._

"_Skye," the woman said as she took Roahn's three fingers in her five. The handshake was firm and both grips adjusted to match the intended tenderness, interpreting the strength of the shake through the tiny muscle movements that slithered through their palms._

"_You ready to go, Skye?" Roahn asked._

_Skye flashed her toothy grin again, a flattering picture to Roahn. "Let's see what you're made of, Roahn."_

* * *

**A/N: At this point, we've got a large bulk of all the character setups out of the way. Now that we have some of the core conflicts finally established, we can start getting back into the action. Now is when things are going to start getting more interesting!**

**And thank you all to the supporters of this story. Your comments and feedback really mean a lot to me.**

**Playlist:**

**Kaidan's Testimony**  
**"Born In Darkness"**  
**Hans Zimmer**  
**The Dark Knight Rises (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Source Music: Sam's Playlist**  
**"Blood and Thunder"**  
**Mastodon**  
**Leviathan**

**The Relationship Revealed**  
**"Words Through the Sky - The Eclipse"**  
**James Horner**  
**Apocalypto (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Obstacle Course**  
**"Great Leonoptryx"**  
**James Horner**  
**Avatar (Original Extended Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	10. Chapter 10: Routing the Jackals

"_Don't bother selecting the middle dialogue option. You're going to need all the paragon or renegade points you can get and being wishy-washy isn't going to get you very far!"_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

From low orbit, the surface of Aurigal looked like a metallic ocean. Still and lifeless from the omnipresent viewpoint, the world slowly turned upon its axis as its sun cracked its landscape with its solar embrace. The ground looked to be dry and inhospitable—no hues of green or blue could be seen. What little water existed upon the world was locked down in underground caves, miles and miles beneath the surface, one day destined to break through the crust and hopefully to foster life one day.

But that was millions, perhaps billions, of years to come. Aurigal was a new world in the Argo Rho cluster, barely a million and a half years old. A baby in the cosmic sense. Whatever life it could sustain had to be done by artificial means.

In other words, life would have to come to Aurigal.

Abandoned to the dust and the elements, the rust-colored planet held no intrinsic value upon its surface. No apparent reason for anyone to set boots on the ground, its lack of a proper atmosphere notwithstanding. But the reaches of the opportunistic were far and piercing. With the wonders of technology and deep-level scans, it could easily be determined that Aurigal's true wealth was under all the sand and the rock. Unbeaten from the shattering sandstorms and the rolling heat waves, the planet's reserves of helium and rare heavy metals transformed the view of the world from a lifeless rock to a literal gold mine.

Expeditions and plans to colonize proceeded in the wake once this fabulous news made it back to the public, just in time for the galactic economy to take notice. Many companies vied for the winning bids to stake their claim through an aggressive and sometimes antagonistic screening process. It could sometimes take years for qualified candidates to finally be awarded a contract to mine a new world—considerations had to be taken into place about how many personnel was the company planning to send, how extensive would the operation be in terms of equipment and cost, and what kind of environmental footprint was the operation going to leave behind, and so on and so forth. Many of the qualifications actually held little value, truth be told, but they had been officially set in an effort to appease the public by maintaining that such assignments were delivered to companies that were responsibly minded.

It was no wonder that planet contracts were so heavily fought over. Each one represented a potential multi-trillion-credit source of income to the company, if their claim turned out to be worthwhile. A successful operation could secure the future of these colonization corporations for decades to come. Apart from PMCs, colonization operations were in high demand amongst the populace. They paid well, and apart from the loneliness stemming from being several billion lightyears away from any civilized world, there was always some activity to be done to stave off boredom. A well-run mining colony could bring in over twenty-five billion credits worth of resources every galactic standard year, depending on the commodity. Helium and element zero always had a high demand—no surprise as they were necessary fuels for any vehicle that had a drive core. Palladium, iridium, and platinum also held a substantial market value—manufacturing companies lapped these up faster than they could utilize them.

One of the downsides of being on a distant colony was that, if something were to go wrong—a natural disaster or a refining mishap—and it required outside action to course correct, the laws of physics, given the long distance, dictated that any suitable response from the company's home base would take an obscenely lengthy amount of time to reach the colony. Long enough for catastrophic damage to occur in the interim while waiting for the reply back.

The colonists would just have to hope that, if the worst came to pass upon their colonies, that their fortunes would align with the rapid arrival of aid and a quick end to their misery.

Today, that fortune took the shape of a warship locked in a geosynchronous orbit over their heads.

* * *

_Menhir__  
Cargo Bay – Launch Tube_

Roahn serenely stared out from the window of the Kodiak as a miniature shudder ran the length of the shuttle's hull. With a faint whirring noise, the craft's VI slowly ramped up the engines and the rafters of the launch tube rapidly fell by in a blur, the winking departure light vanes coalescing into vivid lines as the Kodiak shot from the confines of the _Menhir_, finally free.

The quarian's view tilted—Roahn's stomach gave a faint lurch as the stars and soft clouds of dust jerked in her limited view before the Kodiak settled into its turn. She had just enough time to appraise the lonely outline of the _Menhir_ falling away from them as they descended towards the surface of the dirty and sun-scarred world. The glow of the planet flowed in through the windows, liquid-like, and fiery fingers from the friction of reentry began to pounce at the edges of the craft. The Kodiak jittered minutely—acceleration dampeners had been activated to keep its occupants from being thrown about like laundry in a washing machine—before it finally broke through the first atmospheric layer and started to become carried aloft by the thicker "air" of the world.

Her attention now less intrigued by the view out the window, Roahn settled back in her seat, nerves aflutter with excitement. She quickly scanned the others sharing the rather cramped interior of the Kodiak. Next to her sat Liara, eyes closed and a peaceful expression on her face—she had performed planetary insertions so many times in this sort of craft that this must have been old hat to her. On the other side of the asari was Skye, who had thankfully remained quiet throughout this trip so far. Across the flat standing area, seated with their backs to the cockpit, were Garrus and Sam. The human sat leaning forward, hands tightly clenched upon his knees, a flat and somewhat nervous look about him as his feet tapped staccato beats against the thin floor.

All five of them were armored and packing enough firepower to take on an entire army. Roahn had gone to the trouble of applying a set of armored pads for her shoulders and had reinforced her shin guards, making her look a little more bulky from the flat gray panels she now wore, but she could at least take some serious punishment. Her pistol was attached at her waist, with an assault rifle and shotgun slung upon her back. She had the short and medium ranges locked down, and with the chipsets she had installed in her prosthesis, she was sure that she could take on any challenger that dared to face her.

Liara had also slipped into a set of smooth and polished armor, colored a stark and thick black with tender blue accents wrapping around her sides. Like Roahn, she had also chosen to adorn a pistol but had also grabbed two submachine guns for good measure. Skye was decked out in the protected but lithe guard of a sniper—her weapon of choice was laid across her legs, an expensive Widow model. Sam had chosen to outfit himself in the traditional garb of a medic, his coverings colored a creamy white with red stripes cutting parallel to the ground across his shoulders and chest. While he carried two pistols and a shotgun of his own, Sam had repeatedly stressed that he was here only as medical backup—not as a soldier.

After a few more minutes of scything through the filthy cloud layer, Garrus stood up and walked to the middle of the Kodiak's passenger area (a whole step away from his seat), looking every inch the hero that the films had portrayed, all dressed up in his tall-collared armor of scratched gray and oceanic blue. His smoothly chipped face looked chiseled in the darkness of the craft, like the turian had been fashioned out of the finest marble. The eyepiece he wore was a scathing cut of cerulean that ripped through the shadow, hovering and all-seeing as the turian took in the sight of his subordinates.

Before Garrus opened his mouth to speak, Roahn, staring openly in admiration at him, still remained cognizant to realize that, despite this new team, this all felt distinctly familiar. Her stint in the Defenders was still fresh in her mind—it would be a tall order to wipe the taste of that failed group from her mouth.

_Yet everything from this point forth will all be different. It has to be._

"You guys need a rundown on the mission brief?" Garrus asked, looking at each person for a full second, to make sure he had everyone's complete attention. He got head shakes back as an answer from the craft's occupants.

Save for one.

"Commander?" Garrus asked Roahn, who had not yet relayed any reaction.

Roahn tilted her head, catching the stares of Liara and Skye who had turned to look upon the quarian. Shrugging, Roahn fixed her attention back onto Garrus. "A recap can't hurt us, sir."

_A plan is worth reciting up to the moment of its execution._

Another lesson from her father.

Garrus momentarily rose as he breathed out a silent chuckle. Despite him previously telling Roahn that it was all right for her to address him by his first name, the quarian had staunchly refused to do that in the presence of those that had not known the turian all that long—mainly Skye, in this case. Roahn just had the feeling that appearing too chummy with the captain was going to give Skye funny ideas. She knew that Liara and Sam could not care at all from such a breach in decorum—Sam and Garrus were playfully antagonistic to each other on a regular basis, for crying out loud. But Skye… she was new. This was all unfamiliar to her. The last thing she needed was to create an environment where impropriety seemed to be tolerated.

Because that had worked so well for her the last time.

"A unanimous decision has not been met," Garrus said as he began pulling up holo-maps to display upon the floor of the shuttle. "So let's go over this one more time. As of 56 standard hours ago, a general distress beacon here, on Aurigal, was activated for approximately 13 minutes. It bore a repeating message detailing that the entire mining operation and the colony—named Outpost A-1—was overrun by a PMC named Chorus. The initial report was hazy, but there was enough information picked up to determine that only a small invasion force by Chorus was used to take the settlement. Reinforcements from the Alliance are inbound to secure the planet, but they relayed this one to us in the meantime, knowing we'd be able to take care of this issue and lessen their overall risk. I think in this case, we're only too happy to oblige."

"Did we ever figure out why Chorus sent such a supposedly smaller force than normal to take the outpost?" Skye piped up.

"It's only civilians on Aurigal," Liara answered in Garrus' stead. "Maybe a few armed guards and ex-soldiers. Chorus most likely felt it wasn't worth sending a platoon-sized cadre to seize a facility worth billions of credits in future investments if the resistance was predicted to be light."

"It also decreases the amount Chorus has to pay to the contractors who take the facility," Roahn leaned over. "PMCs pay a flat rate—not a percentage. The less bodies they use to complete the objective, the less the expenditures."

Rings of light encircled Garrus' fingers as he made pinching movements on the overlaid map, zooming in so the squad could get a good look at their operating zone. The map was tricolor, faintly buzzing with an aquamarine shimmer. Ragged elevation lines cut dramatic paths across the map, indicating the mountainous terrain with the gentle valleys nestled in between.

"The outpost falls under the Alliance's jurisdiction," he said, "but this is where our first strike capability provides us with the advantage. The Alliance was even kind enough to indicate to us that they don't care about bringing back prisoners for them to deal with. Far as they're concerned, we can operate against Chorus with extreme prejudice."

_Extreme prejudice_. The words had been used in connotation with many of Roahn's operations before, but it was always an addendum to a mandate that was clumsily wielded like a club. Here, it would act as a surgical cut, afflicted deftly by a swift scalpel.

A dangerous line to tread. Blurring the lines between vengeful retribution and wanton retaliation.

Garrus was now indicating several locations on the map. "Outpost A-1 has a simple layout. One avenue cuts through the settlement—all prefab structures, so be sure to keep a sense of where you're at." He glanced up, eyes level and expectant. "Roahn, Liara. You will be with me and provide the bulk of the main assault."

Roahn nodded. "Works for me, sir."

"No problems here," Liara affirmed.

"Skye," Garrus pointed to the human, "you're on overwatch. Provide us with sniper support on this ridge here." He indicated a shielded crevasse on the edge of a low mesa—a perfect spot with a view of the settlement nestled in the valley below.

The woman stowed her rifle and rubbed at her chin, satisfied at the plan. Skye then looked up and pointed at Sam, who was now reclining in his seat. "So… what's _he_ going to do?"

"Sit back," Sam shrugged, a nonchalant look about him, "watch you guys, and patch you up if you start to bleed. Couldn't get any simpler."

Skye levelled a lopsided grin of disbelief. "_That_ attached to your Hippocratic oath? Just because you're our resident medic, does that mean that you're going to sit out on every fight?"

"I have no problem with guns," Sam looked down at the pistols strapped to his thighs for proof on this matter. "I just figure that this sort of issue can be solved by people more talented in the hostilities department. Of course, you're welcome to do _my_ job, if you think you can do it better. Your hands steady?"

A rational person would have otherwise chosen this moment to disengage with what most would consider a pointless argument in this instance. Roahn, however, knew that Skye had a tendency to double down and push back upon people who talked back or challenged her in any way. She must have taken Sam's snarky tone as a subtle attack on her character. She waited, intrigued to see if Skye would proceed to dig her own grave.

She would not be disappointed.

Skye's grin turned wolfish and she straightened her back to make her look, for lack of a better word, _heroic_, in Roahn's eyes. "It's all right to be intimidated in our presence, doc. We're all a bunch of badasses here. Two proven Defenders and two members of the Normandy team. Can't get much better than that, eh? We've all been tested in battle before, earned our stripes, so you might find that your services will probably not be utilized all that much here."

To Skye's annoyance, Sam's subtle smile continued to be etched upon his face. To Roahn, the man's demeanor reminded her of a poker player who knew he had a winning hand and was keeping himself as composed as possible until it was time to thrown down at the culmination of the river.

"I'd dearly love to know if you have the _slightest_ idea of what you're talking about," Sam quipped back. "You certainly talk hard but I've met people who have been all bluster before."

"Simple way to determine that," Skye now frowned as she gestured towards everyone else in the hold. "All four of us—we've had to kill people. Whether in self-defense or because of orders, but we've all done it. Have you even shot anyone, doc?"

_Uh oh_. Roahn realized, arching an eyebrow in anticipation. Skye was really reaching now, desperately wanting the last word. Skye had not realized that she had already stumbled into a minefield. There was no reason for Sam to have told the woman that he _had_ actually participated in the war as a combat medic and had become quite experienced throughout the entire Earth campaign. Not to mention, there was one aspect of Sam's life that he rarely broached with anyone at all—

"Yes," the man said. "I have."

Skye laughed, not believing him. "Bullshit. Who?"

The smile on Sam's face now cooled, turning just a tad remorseful as the shapes in his eyes reflected sheets of rain, a crackle of thunder, and lingering howls that echoed into a precarious night. "I shot my own brother-in-law. In the face."

Were it not for the sheer confidence and matter-of-fact tone that Sam had demonstrated in delivering his answer, Skye might have followed up with another contentious jab. As it stood, the seriousness that Sam was fixating her with, arms crossed across his chest, all pretenses of humor vanished from his face, were the final nails in the coffin that killed this dumb contest for good.

Calling the next few moments an awkward silence would be an understatement. No one seemed to even breathe as they made every effort to appraise some mundane part of the craft other than each other's eyes.

The spell was finally broken as Garrus looked out the window and quietly commented, "Sixty seconds to touchdown."

No more words would be uttered until planetfall was complete.

* * *

The Kodiak had landed atop a small rise a few miles away from the outpost. Their approach had been low, cutting through the mountain ranges so as to avoid detection. There had been no panicked alerts out on nearby comms, so that was one indication that their insertion had gone unnoticed. PMCs may be well-equipped in the warring department, but they lacked the sort of discipline that a well-trained governmental army might possess. If there was no chatter, then that was as definitive of a successful landing as there could be.

Aurigal's air was poisonous to breathe, comprised of vapors that were toxic to living tissue. Garrus had extensively briefed his Umbra squad on this factoid before they had even entered the shuttle. All five were now helmeted and locked in their suits as they dropped from their craft, the hollow and grating sounds of their own breaths drowning out the surrounding quietus that a young planet naturally possessed.

Clumps of dirt the color of grunge and heavy corrosion clung to Roahn's boots. She could hear the soft crunch carry up to her ears from her boots and through her suit. A murky magenta hue scarred the sky, but the glimmer from the heavens above was allowed to project its majesty without a polluted atmosphere getting in the way. From where she stood, Roahn could see the smoky arms of the Milky Way slowly scrape their way across the sky, leaving billions and billions of stars and nebulae in their wake. Fiery glimmers of stars of blue and red shimmered passionately where they hung, driven by a maniacal energy locked within their mighty pull. It was as if the sky was bloodthirsty, determined to transfix those locked in its great gaze for an eternity. The light dazzled its way across Roahn's visor. She could not help staring, for every time she stepped onto an unfamiliar place, she was always struck by the way the sky looked so different under an unfamiliar lens.

A different world. A new perspective. Truly a humbling thought, to realize just how deep the breadth of her peoples' determination had run. They had certainly conquered the stars.

Near the lip of the cliff, Sam had walked over and silently stood, looking at the sheared landscape, hands behind his back. His helmet tilted upward, similarly appraising the starlight air, taking solace in the alien surroundings that had opened their arms to him.

Roahn walked over to him, rolling her steps so as to keep her center of gravity in check. "Taking in the scenery?" she asked as she approached.

"Just keeping myself grounded," the man said. "It's been a figurative blink of an eye since humans were landlocked to their planet. Now it seems like we've been making up for lost time, exploring the depths galaxy. Each new world we step foot on is a new place we previously thought unreachable." He knelt down so that he could take a clump of dirt in an armored palm, letting the grit sift through his finger in a waterfall of dusty brown. "I think it's fascinating."

"It really is," Roahn agreed as she stood next to Sam, gazing off towards the jagged and broken horizon, viewing the harsh spires of the furthest mountains break up the sky in the distance.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Garrus waving an arm in their direction. "We're being called over," she spoke to Sam.

"Fine," he said as he straightened back up. "I've had my fill."

They made their way over to where Garrus had congregated the squad back by the shuttle. His omni-tool had been ignited over his palm, once again throwing up a mini-map of the surrounding area. A few icons shimmered in iridescent colors upon the quasi-dimensional face. From first glance at the map, Roahn could judge that the collection of man-made-looking structures over in the next valley was probably their objective. Outpost A-1.

"It's about an hour's hike to the settlement," Garrus said before he indicated a slight pass that cut through the range. "Skye, once we get here you'll break off and take up a position on the surrounding ridge. Liara, Roahn, you'll be with me the whole way as we infiltrate here, using what looks like a refinery for cover. Sam, you remain at a safe distance once we reach the colony proper and be ready to respond should we need any assistance."

"Aye-aye," Sam rasped in a tone that many would take as mocking but in this case, it was an endearing affirmation.

Garrus then made a circular motion above the map. "I've already sent out a few drones to scour the area. We've picked up almost two dozen contacts. No civilians in sight—well, living ones, that is. Assume everyone down on the ground is hostile, but still, make sure that whoever you fire at is a bad guy."

"Is there a fix on Chorus' commanding officer?" Liara asked.

"Nothing concrete right now," Garrus shook his head. "Recon spotted a Nomad scout vehicle moving towards some of the remote helium wells several miles east of our position. I'd be willing to bet the commander is in that vehicle, _if_ we scour the outpost and don't manage to find him. So, when all hell breaks loose down there, assume that he's going to come on charging back here, maybe with a company of bodyguards in tow."

"Did we bring any weapons to deal with armored vehicles?" Skye piped up.

Roahn patted a thick leather pouch at her side. "I brought some mines along. They'll rip any scout vehicle to shreds if they run over 'em."

"And don't forget," Liara added, "I can complement that with my biotics."

Garrus' tinted visor made its way towards each of his squadmates. "Seems like we've accounted for everything. We'll maintain radio silence heading towards the objective, just to be safe. Any last thoughts before we head out?"

Roahn had one. "Are we going loud or quiet on this op once we reach the objective, sir?"

The turian did not respond to Roahn's question in a verbal manner. Instead, he withdrew his assault rifle from the magnetic slot upon his back, flicked the switch to have it unfold with a series of precise and metal clicks, and flipped the safety off with a smart _snickt_ for good measure.

"Does that suffice for an answer?" Garrus asked, a smile practically etched into every word.

Roahn responded in kind by withdrawing her own rifle and repeating every action her captain had made, down to the position that she cradled the weapon with. She breathed in serenely, finding an eerie calmness descend about her as a welcome familiarity guided her actions. This felt right. More importantly, it felt good.

Time for Umbra to make a statement.

"_Yes_," Roahn nodded, trying to contain her glee. "Oh, _yes_ it does."

* * *

_Outpost A-1  
__Closer To Hell Bar_

_Closer To Hell_ was the name of Outpost A-1's only company cafeteria and it was less of a bar than the title would have one believe. Chorus Lieutenant Scott Derulo certainly resented that fact as he stepped out from the airlock that led inside, now exiting into the rustic desert that the bar itself promised respite from. He had left three of his mates back inside, all of whom had been lounging around the interior in boredom, sprawled out in various states of despondency, desperately trying to get drunk off the colony's limited supply of beer.

_Light_ beer, no less. It was also the only source of alcohol Outpost A-1 had to offer. Derulo had been particularly aggrieved at that fact and he had personally led a search party to ransack every single barrack on this godforsaken rock in the hopes that one of the colonists had smuggled some hard liquor aboard in a travel locker. The "op" had been unsuccessful and had only served to dampen the spirits of the Chorus contractors, who were now aimlessly waiting for their larger fighting force to stop on by in their mothership and relieve them from this mundane assignment.

A shot rang out, causing Derulo to whip his head towards the direction of the noise. He relaxed once he saw that it was only one of his fellow contractors, dressed in the same Chorus armor from head to toe, walking purposefully around a nearby water tank with a smoking pistol in one hand. Derulo gave a knowing nod. That must be Wallace, finishing off the last of the colonists. The lieutenant figured that if he were to stride over from the area Wallace had just left, he would find a body of a civilian, still encased in their environmental cocoon, with a singular shot to the head. Derulo sighed—he would have to call for some assistance soon in getting the body over to the mass grave that they had dug near the mine entrance, where the rest of the bodies of the colonists awaited, still exposed to the roughened elements.

Aurigal had been a particularly miserable assignment. Not because of the duty that Chorus' contract entailed—slaughtering the people in this camp—but that the world itself was a thoroughly depressing place to be. Worlds like this, with paltry atmospheres unsuitable to sustain life, made it difficult to enjoy the aspects of Derulo's work. He hated fighting with a helmet on and he hated doing patrols with it on too. Breathing recycled air was a stuffy and hateful experience. It only served to darken his mood, as well as the moods of the people he fought alongside with, which they in turn took out on the people of this colony.

Chorus' guidebook on how to "pacify" a settlement like this had been relatively straightforward. Add in the fact that there had been little to no resistance and one got a cakewalk assignment. Derulo's party had rolled into town, guns blazing, and had wiped out half the settlers in less than five minutes. The contract specifically stated that all of the civilians had to be killed otherwise they would not receive any payment. Derulo did not remember anyone in the commander's party balking at those terms. Money was money, and in a galaxy where an income was necessary for survival, it was hard to be picky.

Many of the civilians had fled upon hearing the sounds of a scuffle. Chorus managed to get most of them, but four had managed to escape into the mountains. It had taken two days to finally round them all up and bring them back to camp. They had considered torturing a couple of the escapees, but everyone's moods were shot after the manhunt. They just wanted to get this job over and done with.

So, they had dragged the runaways out into the street and shot them dead minutes upon their return. Point blank.

Wallace had apparently just finished the last one off at this moment. Finally. They could get off this godforsaken rock now. The commander had actually just left in his Nomad to find an area where the mountain ranges would not interfere with the long distance communicator. The mothership would arrive at Aurigal in 48 hours. Nothing to do now but get some sleep and drink some weak beer.

The thought of returning to his own bunk gave Derulo shivers of delight. Fresh sheets. Warm food. A strong stout. He could scarcely think of a better way to relax.

He momentarily blanked out and drooped his head towards the ground, distracted by a spot of colonist blood that had dared encroach its way upon his boot. When he lifted himself up, he frowned as he beheld Wallace now sprawled out in the middle of the dusty street, sheets of wind charging around his body impassively. Clumsy idiot. Wallace had never been sure-footed in his life. It was only when Derulo realized that Wallace was no longer moving did he get the inclination that something was amiss.

Derulo turned just in time to see one of the guards at the farthest checkpoint give a tiny shudder before they also toppled to the ground. There had been an almost imperceptible haze around their head—one that Derulo was intimately familiar with. He was still too sluggish to react, but that all changed when a harsh zip shot through the avenue and a body heavily fell from the balcony of the bar, tumbled off the room, and landed right at Derulo's feet after falling from the story above. The man looked down at the corpse of his comrade and at the spreading pool of blood that slowly leaked from the opening at the back of its head. A dark and glistening cavity dribbled wetly in its skull. When it had landed, bits of brain had flecked onto the tips of his boots, glistening atop the browned stains that had already resided there.

_Now_ he reacted.

"Sniper," he said as he chinned his radio, nearly tripping over himself as he made for the closest alley to get his bearings. "Sniper. _Sniper_. We're taking sniper fire right—"

Derulo's sentence never got a chance to be completed, because as soon as he turned around, he was greeted by an unfamiliar, thinner, and altogether angrier individual as they swung what looked like the butt of a rifle… _directly towards his face_.

Right before the point of impact, Derulo had only one final thought left to reverberate.

_Is that a quarian?_

* * *

Roahn glanced down at the body she had just knocked into unconsciousness, a sweat barely broken out over her. She hunkered behind a large trash receptacle for a second to see if the man had been accompanied by any of his cohorts. No one was in the immediate area, so Roahn had no qualms about perforating the downed soldier with two bullets to the sternum.

The crackling booms from the gun's reports were loud enough to shake the world.

People would certainly know where she was now.

As far as Roahn was concerned, they had already seized upon the element of surprise when Garrus had provided Skye with permission to open fire from her perch. Three bogeys wiped in five seconds. Very good fire placement.

She looked down again at the corpse at her feet. No remorse welled from inside her; all she allowed herself to see was an empty shell. Even if, somehow, her two bullets had failed to kill the man outright, Aurigal's toxic atmosphere would do the rest of the work for her. She also noted, to her incredulity, that the colors on Chorus' armor was hilariously mismatched to their combat zone: forest green with bare white stripes. Either this PMC had only one color scheme or no one told them that they were deploying onto a desolate and rocky world that most certainly did _not_ have any green hues to blend into.

Disregarding any distractions that did not pertain to the mission, Roahn pinned herself to the side of the cafeteria, feeling a hand out to catch any stray vibrations from anyone still inside. Friend or foe.

She was rewarded with multiple tremors that ran along her palm. Movement inside. Several bodies. Heavy, too—armored? And moving fast.

Definitely foe.

Roahn quickly leaned out in a half-crouch and faced the main entrance of _Closer To Hell_. The maneuver had been perfectly timed, for three armed Chorus soldiers were in the process of marching out when Roahn opened fire upon them all. The men fell apart in a flurry of bullets. One shot took a quarter of a man's head off. Another partially severed another's arm at the elbow, causing it to uselessly dangle in a tatter of torn sinew and flesh before another shot to the neck finished them off. The final man had been toting a shotgun, which he had accidentally fired when the first bullet spun him around, causing him to blow off his own foot. Armor-piercing rounds then shredded his legs away, leaving him to bleed out in the dry and acid air.

"Moving up," Roahn said.

"Roger," she heard Garrus in her ear. She took a glance towards the other side of the street, where the turian was also plodding forward, taking care to be methodical in his approach.

Roahn matched her captain's pace. The two of them hugged the fronts of the prefabricated structures as they cleared each building one at a time. The good thing about this was that these mass-produced structures had little variation to their designs—there were not that many places to hide. Not that hiding was what members of a PMC usually did. They were mostly content to go out in a blaze of glory, to stupidly throw their life away for the sake of getting an adrenaline rush.

Private militaries lacked the training and resources it usually took to forge a soldier. Today was simply that theorem finally given form.

One thug in particular chose this next moment to dart out in front of her, utilizing no cover to his advantage. Roahn was behind a walkway balcony, impervious to most bullets below the waist, plus she had the high ground. She lifted her rifle and gave the trigger a crisp pull. The thug's neck exploded in a spray of red. He fell to the ground, lifeless.

Roahn stepped over his body.

She heard a clatter followed by a crash from above. Roahn leaned out of the way just as a clear plastic shield—a window—tumbled down right in front of her. Another Chorus soldier had stuck his head out, a submachine gun in a hand, and was about to fire when Roahn quickly whipped up her own weapon and let off a tri-burst. All three shots hit the man in the head, completely blowing it off his body. Roahn gave a slow blink as her own breath trickled to a crawl. Ignoring the gory spectacle of her own making, Roahn concentrated instead on how uncomfortably she was digging the stock of her rifle into her shoulder, serving to drive her into the selfish present.

_Them or you. It's not a hard choice._

There was no ache from her left hand as the fingers of her prosthesis tightly gripped the stock of the rifle. No fatigue. No wear and tear. So far it had been handling this exercise quite dutifully. Roahn took a moment to insert a few heat sinks into the weapon, easily holding the rifle aloft with her metallic hand while she dug in her pack for the clips. In the heat of the moment, the input lag was negligible. Actually, when her mind was fully focused on this one task, this was the moment where her wounded arm no longer seemed to exist. The prosthesis truly became an extension of herself, like it had always remained there.

The burnt scent of bronzed sand. The acrid taste of cordite right at the back of her tongue. The tingle of her extremities. Minutia once disregarded now, under a microscopic lens, brought to the forefront and enhanced. She took a deep breath. Held it for a full second. Released it.

And… _there_. A deep tickle in her left fingers. Willowy nerves had stretched to their limits, grasping beyond fleshy barriers and had found something. It was enough to bring tears to the corners of her eyes, which quickly dried away.

Her mouth clenched itself in a manic grin, teeth widely bared. She savagely racked the slide of the rifle, inserting a new clip into the barrel. More. She wanted more of this feeling.

_I can be whole out here._

Roahn embarked into a crouch as she spied movement beyond the windows of a nearby prefab. Already preparing herself for the dulled recoil, the bite of the stock into her shoulder as the gun threatened to rattle itself clear from her body, she re-clenched her fingers where they were and fired half the clip through the windows, blowing them out and taking several mercenaries down with the onslaught.

Littered glass and plastic dirtied the ground in front of her. Roahn burst her way through the airlock door to confirm that her targets were down. One soldier was still alive, to her concern, and quickly rotated a detached machine gun, setup upon a tripod, in her direction. There was nowhere to run to. Nothing she could get behind in time before the barrels spooled up in a low whine.

Without thinking, she lifted up her left arm.

A searing and bright hexagonal canvas burst from her omni-tool, splaying out to cover her entire profile. A screen of hard light, projected under the guise of a protective shield. It hummed and crackled eagerly, tiny tendrils of static electricity spitting from the central projection point to the edges of the sheet.

The machine gun opened fire a half-second later.

Roahn gasped as the chunky bursts from the enemy's machine gun slammed into the shield, forcing her back a half-step. Solid and thick impacts crashed against the barrier she had erected, spitting angry sparks and causing the surface of the shield to ripple steadily. The air seemed to split apart with noise. She held onto her own arm, digging a heel into the grated floor as she closed her eyes and leaned into the assault, tracer rounds sailing completely past her body and exploding upon her shield with frantic licks of flame and focused pulses of pressure and heat.

But the shield held. The tempo of the machine gun rippling through her body became a steady throb. The chipset. It was working.

Roahn opened her eyes.

She took a tender step forward, finding herself able to withstand the blowback. Bullets still smacked upon every inch of the shield, but not a single bullet hit her body. Roahn took a bigger step. Then another. Then another.

She was now within mere feet of the mercenary.

It was hard to determine the level of fear this soldier had as he appraised her towering form plodding towards him. After all, he had been dishing out enough explosive fire to completely pulverize her body and turn her into a fine mist had she not been shielded. He still held the trigger down as he let the machine gun go crazy, the edges of the barrel now glowing white-hot as the weapon proceeded to overheat itself as it uselessly assaulted Roahn.

And then… the machine gun, unable to vent any more heat, pathetically hissed and died in the mercenary's hands, steam rising from its frame.

This was her chance.

The shield that had sprung from Roahn's arm reconfigured itself and quickly molded into a thick and deadly spear that seemed to wisp from her wrist—a gentle flare of cosmic light scraping the edge of an eclipse. The omni-sword seemed to sing as Roahn gave it just a single swipe through the air. The light silently flickered through the air—weightless upon the quarian's body. But the mercenary's throat had been opened in that one feverish move, a brief geyser of blood foaming from the slash in his neck. His death was mercifully quick. The blood pressure in his head rapidly dropped beyond the level necessary to sustain his brain as his life gushed out onto the floor. He was dead in a minute.

Just another lowlife to add to the ever-growing tally in Roahn's head. The violent color of blood seemed to be painted to the inside of her eyelids. But she did not shudder as she looked away and walked out of the room, back through the airlock and out into the toxic air. She could not afford to entertain regret. Emotions got people killed on the battlefield. They made one sloppy, prone to errors. As long as she could come to terms with herself that what she was doing was waging war in a respectable manner and not giving into the natural sadism that had infected the people in outfits like Chorus, then she could stand a chance at emerging from all of this undamaged.

But how odd to think of war as "respectable." Killing was a heinous job, yet it was now deemed a necessary service. Was this the product of the galaxy regressing as a whole… or just a select few individuals serving to lower the bar further and further?

This could not be entertained any more. Roahn's duty was clear. If it had been decided that the PMCs ended up causing more harm than good, then Roahn would be the first in line to exterminate this malignance that was poisoning her life.

She wiped the disturbing images of the men she killed from her mind. Once again, she settled into blankness and a focused look.

_Keep moving. Keep shooting._

So she did.

A comfortable rhythm made itself known as she continued forth to carry out her mission. The pull of the trigger. The pulse of the rifle. The shouts of the dying. All she had to do was line her enemies up, one by one, and fire. Easy. The calm violence of the bloodshed she left in her wake acted as her new normality. What should have been a fierce fervor had diminished into a simmering routine. Her skills were beyond the poor men she faced today. She would roll over them like a tidal wave.

She was a Shepard. This was where she belonged.

A few more adversarial fellows popped out from the nooks and crannies between the buildings, intent on murder. They were far enough away that all of their shots in Roahn's direction were going wild. Disregarding the dull _thunks_ as the bullets hit the sides of the metallic and plastic structures behind her, Roahn calmly sidled into a doorframe, shielding herself from the main assault. Even as the bullets chewed up the structure around her, Roahn was still calm enough to hum a few bars of a little ditty she had heard long ago to distract her racing mind.

In the background, her pulse churned at a steady beat.

* * *

A ways away from the bulk of the action, Sam slowly crept along between the alleys, a pistol in hand as he monitored Umbra's comm channels. So far, based upon what he was seeing with his own eyes, it seemed like everything was going according to plan. Not unexpected, but for someone in Sam's position, it made sense to always be prepared for the worst. A medic could not afford to become complacent.

He ignored the bodies of the Chorus mercenaries as he jogged past them. Not only did his medical eyepiece in his helmet indicate that they were all dead, but Sam also did not care a whit about helping any of them, even if they did need medical treatment. Good intentions be damned, he was a member of Umbra and Umbra's mandate was to expressly destroy all of its enemies. To treat enemy combatants would run counter to that mandate.

Plus, Sam could hardly sympathize with anyone who joined a PMC. In his eyes, they had all sold their soul for cash or purely for the opportunity to create chaos and violence. They could all burn, for all he cared.

"Hold it right there, doc," Sam heard Skye whisper over his communicator.

He halted in place, skidding to a stop, and whirled to face the mesa where Skye was currently camping out. He saw the brief shimmer of a sniper scope far off in the distance, and then the sky was torn asunder as the sniper's bullet quickly shot past him… hitting the Chorus thug that had just been getting ready to ambush Sam around the next corner. Blood and shattered plastic sprayed in thick arc right in front of the medic. Sam jumped as the length of the shot's report echoed within the thoroughfare. Meanwhile, the thug's body slowly slid to the ground, lifeless.

"Jesus," Sam breathed, a hand coming up to his collar.

"Want to check his pulse?" Skye asked.

That was certainly a nonsensical thing to say, considering that Skye's shot had smeared what remained of the mercenary's head all over the wall behind him. The additional ventilation that had been applied to his skull certainly erased all doubt of being able to resuscitate him.

"I think it's out of my hands now," Sam muttered as he stood over the nearly headless body, hands now on his hips.

The sniper wryly chuckled over the comm. "You're welcome."

A few choice words came to Sam's mind, but he chose to merely mouth them, content that he would not say something rude over an open channel. Skye's attitude certainly left much to be desired—playing fast and loose like this was not the sort of behavior that Sam found conducive to this sort of situation. Then again, he had been trying to avoid getting embroiled in conflicts for most of his life and, despite his best efforts, it seemed to be the one thing that he consistently failed at.

Now would probably be an ideal time to have a smoke… if only he had not quit the habit years ago.

Leaving the fresh corpse behind, Sam maneuvered between two of the cylindrical buildings and poked his head into the main street. He could see Roahn and Garrus flanking either side of the boulevard, both seemingly having no trouble as they laid waste to their foes, guns spitting white-hot death off in the distance.

He quickly crossed the street, keeping his head hunkered down. "How's it looking?" he keyed Garrus. "Need me to head up to your position?"

"Nothing to report yet," the turian responded back. "We'll let you know if we need you to swing by with the bandages."

Something told Sam that his presence here would most likely not amount to anything, just as Skye had predicted. Way he saw it, Garrus, Roahn, and Liara had everything under control up there. He continued to crouch-walk in their direction, just in case, the light of the alien sun beating down upon his head as a quick gust of wind dirtied his white armor.

He passed by the entrance of the _Closer To Hell_ bar, skidding to a stop when he spied a blood trail that led back inside the building. Cautious, he gripped his pistol in two hands as he furtively looked back and forth. Activating the auto-doors, Sam quickly stepped inside, ready for everything, as his eyes followed the path the blood had made upon the scuffed and worn floor.

Next to a keg of spilled beer, propped against the counter of the bar, a Chorus trooper, sans helmet (a human), sat with his breathing labored and eyes drooping shut in pain. His hands groped at an area around his thigh—blood was squirting between his fingers from a wound that they hid. Sam automatically looked for a weapon and spotted one—a rifle—well out of arm's reach. The mercenary must have dropped it in his haze to get to safety.

Blearily, the trooper's eyes opened as he spotted Sam in the doorway. He could not have been more than twenty-five. Pale face. Patchy beard. Sandy-colored hair. His chest rose and fell with shuddering breaths. His wound must have been paining him greatly. Sam could almost empathize with the man—he had been shot before and knew firsthand just how bad the pain could get.

"Buddy," he found himself saying, "you're having one _hell_ of a bad day."

The man's lips pursed, fumbling with his words. "Fuck… you."

Okay, so whatever sympathy Sam had managed to dredge for the man had all been thrown out now.

"'Fuck me?'" he chuckled, his voice sounded ragged behind his helmet's vocabulator (he still had not taken it off). "That's all you have to say? Thousands of years of spoken language and the best words you can conjure are 'Fuck you?' We've been using that as an insult for the past few centuries, pal. The novelty has sort of worn off, don't you think?"

"Shut the fuck up," the mercenary gave a wince, aggrieved at his injury and at being in the presence of a smart-ass. "Just shut the fuck up and give me some medi-gel. This really fucking hurts."

Sam made a show of looking down at the bleeding wound in the soldier's leg and back up to his face. "Why would I give _you_ medi-gel?"

"You're a doctor, aren't you? Got the symbol on your shoulders. Besides, I see the canisters in your pack. Give me some."

"I'm not _your_ doctor," Sam retorted. "I don't have to do anything to you at all."

"_Bullshit_," the mercenary spat, becoming more aggrieved. "You have to give me care. It's… it's the rule with you people. I've been… I've been injured on the battlefield. By law, I deserve care."

Sam was having none of it. "Tell you what, if you can cite that rule out of your imaginary rulebook for me, I'm all yours. Also, if I _am_ going to help you in any capacity whatsoever, I'm going to have to see your insurance card."

The mercenary paused, his face a mixture of agony and incredulity. "_Huh?_"

"Your insurance card. Health plan. You got a HMO, PPO, what? If I'm in your network, that lowers the amount of copay you dish out."

"What are you _talking_ about? Are you fucking kidding me?!"

"No, not kidding at all," Sam shrugged as he knelt down. "Healthcare is a serious business. We can wax all day on how the insurance companies have completely inflated the price of treatment, but people in my position don't have much cause to complain. _You_, however, might. Fixing a gunshot is going to be _ex-pen-sive_. I don't suppose Chorus has a company plan, do they? Otherwise, you'll be paying for your treatment all out-of-pocket."

"Pay? For treatment?" the mercenary was near hysterics, not completely due to his blood loss. "That's not how this works at all!"

"Why is it that people who have no experience in any medical field think they can tell me how to do my own job?" Sam grumbled as he looked more closely at the wound the bullet had inflicted when it had torn through the mercenary's thigh. He tapped his own thigh as he looked back and forth, suddenly seeming self-conscious. "Why do you think I should help you?"

"_Because_, man, I'm dying!"

"You've got time. I want to hear a genuine reason why. I want to know if you're worth saving."

The mercenary gave a terrible wince, his face now soaked with sweat. "I have a family."

"That doesn't make you unique."

"I've got a daughter."

Sam frowned underneath his helmet. "Do you think she'd be proud to see you now?"

"Hey, man, I needed money. I'm doing this all for her. Chorus was willing to pay. I didn't want to let her down."

"Anything for our families, huh?"

"Yes. Anything."

Sam seemed to consider the trooper's words thoughtfully, making distant nods to himself. With a brief renewal of vigor, he rotated his head in the downed man's direction. "Very well, then. I'll help."

A relieved smile burst onto the mercenary's face. "Sweet lord, thank yo-!"

"But," Sam held up a hand, "before I fix up that wound of yours, I just need you to tell me one thing first."

"_What?_"

Sam paused, his expression veiled behind his helmet. "How many people did you kill here?"

Terror like the flames of a brushfire leapt upon the mercenary's features. He opened his mouth to immediately provide Sam with an answer, but halted, realizing that the doctor would see through the lie instantly. This was a man with no experience hiding his fear—his forehead, already glistening with sweat from the pain, was now profusely dripping.

"Three," he finally said.

A silence like winter settled upon the two. Sam minutely nodded, seemingly accepting the answer. What the mercenary could not see was that Sam's gaze had faded out of focus, no longer projecting the soldier in the forefront of his vision, a melancholy sadness briefly overtaking him.

"Very well," Sam uttered again as his hand reached behind him, hidden from the trooper's view. "Now, this will probably hurt for just a moment."

"Come on, doc," the mercenary drawled, his face sliding more and more into relief, "you and I both know that medi-gel doesn't hur—"

There was no time to even register the infinite blackness of the pistol's barrel that Sam had swiftly brought up to the man's face. The trooper's eye had just flicked over as he fought to focus in on the fuzzy object that had been brought in too close for him to immediately take notice of.

The windows of the bar flashed once, but the actual report from the pistol had been drowned out by its brethren outside.

* * *

"Commander," Liara's voice buzzed in her ear. "Two seconds. Get ready."

Roahn grinned as she switched over to her shotgun. "Go ahead."

She peeked out just in time to witness a flurry of dark energy explode from nothingness, furrowing and collapsing into a sphere of infinite mass amongst the makeshift Chorus squad that had started their ill-fatted attack upon Roahn's position. The singularity captured all three individuals and hoisted them into the air effortlessly. Their shouts becoming panicked, their limbs flailing about, the biotic attack had left them all helpless and disoriented, all having been drawn from the asari that had stepped out from behind them, a practiced hand flung in their direction.

Roahn jumped the last few steps to make it to ground level and let her shotgun loose with a barrage of noise and meaty light towards the men caught in the gravity well. In seconds, a cauldron of blood and body parts revolved around the shimmering dark orb. Liara dropped her hand, masked by the shadow between two buildings, to let the remains fall to the dirt, creating disgusting splattering noises.

Liara met Roahn halfway. "Good timing on that."

"Thanks for letting me know ahead of time," Roahn replied. "Seen the Chorus commander yet?"

The asari shook her head, briefly pausing to regard a mercenary moving along one of the curved roofs behind her. She gave a causal swipe of her hand and a thick wave of biotic energy was flung from her palm, the arc catching the man and throwing him clear of the roof where he landed on his neck two stories below. "More and more likely that he was the one in that Nomad tearing out of here earlier. We should expect him soon."

"Yes, but we still have to wipe out everyone here before that can happen."

To emphasize that statement, both women mildly turned as they heard two separate sniper shots ring out through the valley. They watched two Chorus contractors upon the tall water tanks several dozen meters away shudder and fall dead to the ground, felled from high-powered rounds that had completely punched through their shields and armor.

"Looks like our resident sniper is feeling right at home," Liara commented.

"She's always been a good marksman," Roahn agreed.

"Would have figured that Garrus would have been the one taking her role. You know how he always liked to compete with your father?"

Softly grinning, Roahn had to shake her head. "I think Garrus understands the bigger picture. You can't lead a squad from a sniper's nest."

"Very true," Liara nodded as she checked her chronometer. "We should have this wrapped up in ten minutes."

"Fine. I'm expecting to be done in seven."

The two split up, with Liara circling toward the rear of the buildings while Roahn continued up the street. She kept Garrus in her peripheral vision, who was still clearing houses in his calm and collected matter. Scattered bursts from his rifle lit up the dark interiors, but the turian always emerged unscathed. As he exited from one particular building, he casually ejected a spent heat sink, and used the brief snippet of time while he was reloading to unleash a concussive shot from his rifle's secondary barrel towards another contractor that had rounded a nearby corner. The contractor dropped, his chest having been caved in from the impact. The soldier spasmed on the ground in his death throes. Garrus made a point to avoid his thrashing body as he continued onwards.

The avenue was now littered with bodies. The sounds of gunfire were becoming more and more sporadic as Umbra whittled down the resistance. It seemed like their attack had caught them completely off guard. Chorus' resistance had been practically akin to a chicken with its head cut off, running around frantically for a few moments before realizing that the end had come.

As much as Roahn hoped for today's results to be the product of her team's skill, she had to accommodate the fact that they might have been lopsidedly pitted against an unprepared force.

As she moved closer and closer to the end of the ramshackle settlement, Roahn could see a few stragglers near the scattered refinery piping off in the distance. She hunkered behind a stack of boxes and leaned atop one. Her rifle could reach them at this range… just. She levelled a few bursts in the direction of the mercenaries. Bullets caught along the tangle of pipes, sending up frantic flashes of sparks and the scything hisses of leaking helium. Her next few shots finally hit home—they slammed into the chests of the men she had been aiming at, throwing them back several feet as if they had been hit with a sledgehammer.

The harsh roar of gunfire seemed to die down along with her adrenaline. The beats of her heart were finally allowed to overpower her hearing.

It was over.

It had seemed so _fast_. Roahn looked down at her chronometer for confirmation and noted, to her incredulity, that exactly seven minutes had passed since she spoke to Liara. No matter how many times she had experienced it, combat high was a disorienting thing to go through. The cocktail of natural hormones that had flooded her system had completely warped her sense of time. What had felt like seconds had actually been minutes. Now she was allowed to experience the comedown, a vast and empty feeling, almost as if the ground was proceeding to suck her right down to the planet's core. Her head gave a brief cramp and her stomach twisted.

She could now live on her own time again, instead of heartbeat to heartbeat.

* * *

Everyone had time to regroup five minutes later, with the exception of Skye, who was still occupying her original position at the top of the mesa. Roahn and Liara moseyed about in the center of the street, keeping a watchful eye out. Sam sat on the steps at the entrance to the bar, blood-stained (for some reason) and occupying a contemplative state of mind.

Garrus was approaching from the edge of the refining fields. Right away Roahn could see that the turian's posture was grim. It was the tiny slouch of the shoulders that gave it away.

"There was a mass grave near the cooling tanks," Garrus said as he made it to Roahn and Liara. "I counted twenty-six bodies. By the Alliance's count, that's all the civilians here."

"I guess we didn't need to worry about fragging any survivors," Roahn grimly noted out loud.

_We couldn't save these people_, she told herself. _At least we made certain their attackers will never hurt anyone again._

A small comfort, but undeniably the truth. It was impossible to tell what kind of atrocities this particular Chorus group would have been responsible for had they slipped free of justice's clutches. Had Umbra not gotten here when it did, the PMC would have moved on, successful with its work and Roahn would have missed her chance.

"Was anyone hit?" Sam asked from where he sat.

"Don't think so," Liara said. "I think we all got off without a scratch."

Sam distantly nodded. "Good. That's good."

"We're not done yet," Garrus said as he took a few steps in the direction of the town's edge, staring off down the road that wound through the valley and punched through the mountain range. "There's still a few more left to go, including our wayward Chorus commander. Skye, do you have a visual on an incoming Nomad?"

"Roger that," Skye reported from five hundred feet up. "He just made it through the mountain pass and is hauling ass down the road. Estimate… five minutes before he reaches the settlement."

"Solid copy on that," Garrus tapped the side of his helmet before he turned around. "Roahn? Liara?"

"I'm on it," Roahn offered as she took off at a run down the street, unslinging her pack as she went. Liara similarly followed suit, but in the direction of the first building that marked the entrance to the settlement.

Roahn sprung open the snap on her pack, revealing four disc-shaped objects almost as big as dinner plates. She quickly rushed to the boundary that separated the ramshackle settlement from the deserted outskirts. Aurigal's twin moons had slowly revealed themselves through the layer of clouds so thick they appeared to be cotton. The two spheres of milky rock added an eerie luminesce to the scene as Roahn withdrew the first of the tactical mines she had been carrying. She touched a control at the very edge of the mine, activating it so that it now glowed a blood-red-orange, and flung it a couple of meters away into the road. The mine began to vibrate as soon as it settled upon the ground, throwing up a layer of dust that coated it, submerging it from view. Roahn repeated the process with the other three mines, arranging them all into a diamond pattern upon the street. Satisfied that this stage had been completed, she headed over to where Liara had taken up residence within a nearby toolshed.

"Now we'll see if Chorus went to the trouble of armoring their vehicles," Roahn said out loud, mainly to herself, but the added narration gave her some peace of mind regardless.

Soon enough, a cloud of erupting dust soon filtered into the air beyond the crest of a slight hill. Roahn and Liara hunkered down as soon as they saw the steel glimmer of the approaching vehicle mount one of the rises, briefly becoming airborne, as it shot in their direction. Whoever was at the controls of that Nomad must have been a madman because it was going at full speed and little heed was paid into keeping it under control, for it was swerving all around the road in an unsteady line.

Either that, or they were simply a terrible driver.

"Fifteen seconds," Skye buzzed in their ears.

Roahn waited, her assault rifle pointed downward at her side. Her left hand clenched and unclenched in agitation, the only sign she gave towards the approaching moment. Her head buzzed—she took a needed swallow.

Now she could hear the low growl, a hungry animal, of the Nomad's engine as it made it to the final straight, the throttle wide open. When the Chorus commander had ostensibly received the message that his group was under attack, he had decided to throw caution to the winds and ride on into town, guns blazing, most likely hoping to make a glorious entrance like the films of old had popularized.

The line of thinking was so cliché that Roahn even harbored slight doubts that this little maneuver of hers would work at all.

Fortunately, PMCs were not known for hiring the smartest individuals.

The Nomad never slowed as it passed the first checkpoint—the marker that welcomed prospecting miners to the wayward hamlet. Incredibly, it maintained its brazen charge, all six wheels churning and spitting chunks of dirt in savage brown plumes behind it. Its front lights cut a scathing past through the windswept silt, marking its trajectory with a fatalistic bravado.

The undercarriage of the Nomad slid right over the tops of the buried mines Roahn had just laid. The airless rubber tires kissed the side of one of the devices, to boot.

That was enough to activate them all.

Four explosions in a nearly instantaneous sequence erupted in the blink of an eye—puffs of flame winked in and out of existence in less than a second. The waves of pressure shot up into the sky, as did a host of shrapnel, which shredded the Nomad's chassis and lifted it up off the ground, leaving it tipping precariously upon its left side with its right wheels sticking comically up into the air. Even as parts rained down from the ruined vehicle, it was still treading forward upon three wheels as a result of the immense momentum it had built up from the driver's mounted charge.

Seeing her chance, Liara stepped out from behind the shed and drew deep from the well of energy housed within her being. Her outline beginning to shimmer a glorious violet, Liara thrust out both palms and gave a firm _push_. A wall of biotic energy slammed from her hands and rocketed into the undercarriage of the Nomad at the precise moment when it passed the asari's position. That was enough to give the stricken vehicle that last tumble over the cliff—the savage force tipped the Nomad completely over, causing it to skid upon its roof with a tremendous crash, tearing gouges into the dirt as pebbles and grit scraped away the paint, trailing sparse glowing sparks in its wake.

In the middle of the Nomad's upside-down slide, it apparently caught a partially-buried rock in the middle of the street, which acted as a pivot point and caused the vehicle to be thrown completely into the air, tumbling in all directions before it hit the ground again.

It smashed hood-first, crumpling the front and smashing the headlights.

The Nomad then fell upon its side, impacting the door and tearing off two wheels which floundered into the air.

It then gave a tremendous wrench and landed upon its ceiling for a final time, but the roof had finally caved in and the windshield had finally popped out.

The stricken rover then sputtered to a limp halt, steam and smoke mingling in a tortured dance as the _drip, drip, drip_ of leaking transmission fluids uttered a quiet and melodic ballet after the previous cacophony had finally quieted, plunging the valley into silence once more.

Roahn was the first to approach the downed Nomad. She had her rifle at the ready, not taking any chances. She stepped through the choking and powdery clouds of dust that had been thrown in a shockwave from the crash, a ghastly apparition on this rusty day with only her barely winking vocabulator and the diodes upon her weapon throwing out any illumination.

She rounded the front, where apparently two Chorus soldiers were crawling their way from what had been the windshield of the Nomad. They were in the process of getting to their feet when Roahn finally stepped around the wreckage to confront them. They were both winded and looked to be slightly wounded.

But they were both armed, with pistol loosely clung in their armored gauntlets.

Roahn's finger lightly pulled the trigger of the rifle and four rounds spat from the weapon. The Chorus mercenaries fell, their chests impacted and shattered, brief misty jets of blood shooting from their bodies. Again the valley echoed with noise.

Her eyes widened behind her visor. There had not been time to think. She had just reacted. Tenderly, she approached the men she had just shot—she had to turn one over with a boot. There was nothing particularly distinguishing about them. Their armor was the sort of configuration that front line grunts usually wore.

_No commander. Shit._

A clattering sound crept from the side of the Nomad and Roahn quickly made her way around to find one more soldier clambering his way from the passenger door of the Nomad, which had tumbled off its ruined hinges and now weakly rocked back and forth on the ground. Roahn held the mercenary under the lens of her rifle, but held her fire as she watched the man stumble to his feet.

This soldier's armor was slightly more ornate than the rest of the fodder she had faced today. The shoulder pads were of a slightly more angular configuration, as was the chestplate. The helmet was different too, and had a different color pattern etched upon this face. There was no rank to discern, but based on the circumstantial evidence, Roahn was now certain this was the Chorus commander.

She let the commander slowly rise to his feet. His hands seemed to bear no weapons. Blood dribbled from tears in the man's bodysuit at the joints, garnered from the crash. He bent his knees, gasping for air and only then did he just seem to notice Roahn. He made a quick, disdainful glance in her direction before spitefully dropping his head away, shamed in his defeat.

Roahn gripped her weapon tighter as she aligned the sights up to her right eye. "Look at me," she said, her voice quiet yet powerful.

The commander's head barely twitched in her direction before obstinately remaining fixated towards the ground.

"Look at me."

As if pulled by an unseen string, the Chorus commander slowly raised his head, his own features hidden behind a gleaming V of obsidian glass. His shoulders slumped and raised as he heavily breathed. Blood dripped from his fingers. He saw himself in the polished sea that was Roahn's visor. He saw his own weakness reflected right back at him.

Transfixed, the two stilled under the throes of the dying day.

Wordless, the commander abruptly straightened his back with a popping noise and brought up his left arm, which had been partially hidden from Roahn's view. In a hand, the human gripped a tiny pistol, his finger already having slipped into the trigger guard. Electricity furrowed through Roahn's nerves in alarm and she was about to pull on her own trigger when an earth-shattering _crack_ tore through the air.

Both individuals jumped.

In an instant, the commander's chest cavity was ripped completely open in a monstrous deluge of crimson. Rendered armor sheared away in tatters. Flesh and bone split apart, exposing a rack of gleaming white ribs, the organs inside having been pulverized from the pressure wave that had rippled throughout the commander's body.

With only a gurgle, the Chorus commander fell into the remains of his own guts. The sand below him eagerly thirsted upon his blood, quickly drying up any liquid before it could properly settle.

Now the only one standing, Roahn was left breathing hard as she now looked down upon the corpse at her feet. Numbly, she let her rifle drop back down, still clenched tightly in a hand. She felt nothing for the man—the shock at seeing him being completely torn apart was still something that she had to get used to. One second, he had been in one piece. The next, several. Her pulse was still racing.

"Lieutenant," Garrus muttered into his comm as he jogged up to Roahn's side, staring outward towards the distant mesa, "you nearly took your commanding officer's head off with that shot."

Even from here, Roahn could observe the quintessential glint of a sniper scope from high above. She quickly came back down to earth as she had realized what had happened.

_Skye. Skye was looking out for me._

"Sorry about that, sir," the sniper's voice came in sheepishly. "There wasn't much time to think about the act."

Garrus still continued to lightly reprimand the human. "The Lieutenant Commander is a professional. She would have been able to handle this herself. Next time, make sure you have a cleaner shot when you execute the action."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Accepted. Now start making your way down here. I'm going to call the shuttle over to our position for our exfiltration."

"Roger that," Skye said before the channel disconnected.

The turian ruefully sighed as he now faced Roahn, his eyes briefly flickering over to Sam and Liara, who were approaching the wreckage of the Nomad. "You doing all right, Roahn?"

Roahn nodded, her breath now returned, and took one last furtive glance towards her savior's position. "Yeah. Just got a little surprised there at the end."

"Any pain? Injuries?"

The quarian raised her prosthesis and flexed it for emphasis, a shaky smile coming to her lips. "Nothing on that to report."

"That's good to hear," Garrus lifted his head. "Anyone else suffering from any injuries?"

Liara shook her head. "I'm all right."

Sam pointed to his own head. "Just the usual mental scars."

Garrus wilted and rolled his eyes simultaneously. Sam's droll manner did have an effect at lightening the mood, but this coping mechanism came at the expense of Garrus' patience.

"The fragility of Sam's mind aside," he now addressed the group, "I cannot tell you how excited I am after today. All of you exhibited quick professionalism and held your own against a greater fighting force. That, in of itself, is no small task."

Everyone, high off of adrenaline, was bobbing their heads to Garrus' own rhythm, caught up in the turian's enthusiasm. Garrus then placed a hand on Liara's shoulder—an old gesture between friends.

"If today is any indication of what is to come, then I'm looking forward to facing it with you all. If we get more chances like this in the future, we just might be able to make a real difference. We just might be able to set this galaxy back to normal."

Entwined in the small circle of warriors, Roahn's own smile widened in the presence of the infectious zeal that had overcome the lot. But, unbeknownst to the rest of the group, her smile soon cooled as he stare took on a secluded nature. There was no doubt in her mind that she was proud of the individuals around her and that, like Garrus, she was also looking forward for the chance to finally pay the PMCs back in full. But as she looked down at the destroyed body of the Chorus commander behind her, she wondered if the brutality she was so eager to dispense was going to reach back out to her at some point. Would her desire for vengeance at any cost and her will to persist with a just morality in her work prove to cancel each other out… or utterly destroy her from within?

Failing to locate the answer, Roahn let herself float in the ambient emptiness. Her missing arm began to tickle.

* * *

**A/N: Umbra may have won this battle, but is it enough to win the war? We'll just have to see, won't we?**

**Playlist:**

**Stepping onto a New World**  
**"The Last Road"**  
**Ludvig Forssell**  
**Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Battle at the Outpost, Pt. I (Skirmish Begins)**  
**"Young Cal"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Assassin's Creed (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Battle at the Outpost, Pt. II (Roahn/Liara)**  
**"Soccent Attack"**  
**Steve Jablonsky**  
**Transformers (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Battle at the Outpost, Pt. III (Nomad Tumble)**  
**"It's a Dangerous City"**  
**Hans Zimmer and Steve Mazzaro**  
**Chappie (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	11. Chapter 11: Gravid Judgments

"_Noticing a severe stutter or loss of frames when the combat gets a little too chaotic? Turns out there's nothing you can do about that. We didn't have enough time to optimize the final product before we shipped. Even if you have the latest and greatest graphics card on the market ten years down the line, you'll still find that it won't make any difference."_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

_Menhir__  
Cargo Bay_

The Kodiak crossed the threshold within that dead space between the stars, between worlds. Cradled by an enveloping cloak of darkness and vacuum, the light from Aurigal warmed the shuttle's back as it approached the larger ship in orbit overhead. Its home. Its base.

The worker returning to the nest.

In the shuttle, Roahn, having said nothing since she had stepped off the planet's surface, surveyed the distant faces of her squadmates as the view of the heavens out of the nearby window rotated and churned, grinding the starlight into watery streaks. The VI at the helm was twisting the Kodiak in place, positioning it to land within the _Menhir's_ hold stern-first.

Conversations in the Kodiak had died down to a muted degree since the squad of five had lifted off from Aurigal some seven minutes prior. At first, there had been the expected and excited chatter amongst comrades from a job well done, but that quickly fell apart as the list of conversational topics dried up. A more somber and serious tone had descended amongst the hold of the shuttle as the weight of their actions had begun to sink in, the gristly images of the bodies they left behind refusing to depart their minds so easily.

While each and every one of them was indeed pleased at the outcome that had occurred back on the planet, it was difficult to justify their joy for very long. Killing people by any means necessary, even if they were the scum of the galaxy, was a dreadful business. There was very little elation to glean from this. People had died—innocents first, and then their killers. Blood had been spilled onto parched ground and lives snuffed out all in a span of minutes. What was there to be jubilant about? The only thing that Roahn felt she could take pride in was the idea that her duty, and the duty of everyone else within Umbra, would slowly amount to a more significant whole as their gruesome work whittled away, bit by bit, the strength of their opposition.

She had to take solace in that idea, because what would become of her if she let that concept come crashing down upon her? Simply put, she would fall to pieces, come completely undone.

Roahn looked down at her dirt-flecked prosthesis and slowly flexed each finger individually. Apparently she would always be reminded as to what was waiting out there, beyond the edge of mind.

As the Kodiak entered through the barrier field that separated space from the atmospheric interior of the _Menhir_, there was nary a shudder that passed through the craft, nor when the shuttle itself slowly hovered to a stop and lowered itself down onto the deck. The doors automatically unlatched and slid open to let the passengers off, its duty for today completed.

Silently, everyone filed out in an orderly manner. Liara and Sam, the latter's armor still blood-stained, headed over to the main lift after dropping off their weapons at the armorer's bench. Skye, right behind them, took several paces before turning her head over to see if anyone was following behind her in turn. She gave a frown as soon as she noticed that Roahn was not preparing to leave just yet, choosing instead to linger with Garrus in the Kodiak for right now. The human then slowly proceeded to peel off her armor, taking her time with every individual movement while making periodic checks towards the craft she had just departed from.

Skye would just have to wait, because Roahn had wordlessly begun Garrus in rearranging the interior of the Kodiak, taking care to cleanse the craft from any foreign contaminants that had made their way in from the planet they had just left. As XO, it was her wont to mirror the actions of her commanding officer as well as to show self-care towards the equipment and the ship she was utilizing. The _Menhir_ was to be her new home until further notice and it was extremely vital that she settle into the mindset of looking after each and every aspect of it, no matter how small.

A ship was sacred to a quarian, after all. Just years before she had been born her people had been a spacefaring race. Roahn had accrued a hefty respect for these vessels as a result of her parentage and environment.

A hull breach from extinction. She would be damned if she would let the _Menhir_ fall apart with her on it.

Roahn's omni-tool had a cleansing function installed on it. She activated the device and a thin beam a little less than a meter long sprang up vertically upon the ground, glowing a sickly xenon blue, as if she was shining a lengthy light from her tool. The "light" was actually a harmless field of static electricity—painless for organics, but adept at zapping any contaminants or scouring free any liquids or oils that had managed to permeate any surface. Roahn slowly gave her side of the interior a few swipes—there were multiple sizzling sounds as her tool vaporized stray bits of dust or hair that had temporarily claimed the Kodiak as their resting place. The aftermath left behind an interior that was, for all intents and purposes, completely sterilized.

After a few minutes, Roahn pronounced her side to be spick-and-span. "Need me for anything else, Garrus?" she looked over at the turian.

Garrus straightened from where he was still cleaning and shook his head. "I've got it from here. Go and turn in your equipment—take a rest for a few hours, you've earned it."

"Thanks," Roahn dipped her head as she finally stepped the half-foot down onto the deck of the cargo bay. She looked up where she stood, watching a few of the robotic arms on the overhead rails slightly twitch and dangle, the bustle and flow of the _Menhir_ technicians move back and forth along the floor, the winking lights through the windows of the deck right above her, and the jagged and uneven columns of crated equipment fastened upon the far wall of the ship, acting as impromptu barriers between the armory, the weight room, and a few noncritical ship components.

Roahn turned back, placing a hand on the edge of the Kodiak's door. "Garrus?"

The turian swiveled his head over again, one eye emblazoned through the interior so dark it looked like thick smoke. "Yes, Roahn?"

Her vocabulator had a slight rasp as the filter upon her voice shredded the edges. "You think that we did something important today?"

Garrus dusted off his hands as he too walked out from the shuttle—Roahn moved to clear his path. He gave the door a firm tap with a gauntleted fist, the barrier closing behind him. "Ask me that same question sometime later. What I've learned from my experience is that, if you're trying to change something, be sure you have the patience for it. I can't tell you what today will end up accomplishing because I can't see that far ahead. I'm right there with you, Roahn. Traveling in the dark together."

"I just want to do right by you," the quarian offered. "I don't want to mess this up."

"I've had to withstand years of inaction and bad decisions—by people with supposedly more clout than me—that affected my life and the lives of others I cared about," Garrus said thoughtfully as he considered his younger subordinate before him. "Sometimes all it takes is that opportunity to make it finally feel like a weight's been lifted off your chest." He placed his hand upon Roahn's shoulder in a fatherly fashion, his eyes kind and unwavering while Roahn stared back up at the turian. "This isn't me returning the favor for the chance your father gave me. This is the decision that I made knowing that you would be a perfect fit for the job. If that somehow slipped by the notice of everyone else, then that's their loss. I've had a feeling that you would take full advantage of this chance. Because you are chasing a just cause, not a heroic one."

"You've experienced this difference?"

"Roahn, doing what's right and doing what's heroic _are_ two completely different things. A hero can do no wrong—and people who do no wrong simple do not exist. But a just person does not see things in black and white. They embrace the grayness because they know what is necessary of them. I don't think you will have any trouble discerning the difference."

Roahn let out an inaudible sigh, her knees briefly buckling as she felt a rising sensation begin to take hold in her chest. "Your confidence is overwhelming, Garrus. I… I have to thank you for that."

"Then you are very welcome. But you don't need to linger here and pepper me with compliments. Go and get some food, rest, whatever. Besides, it looks like someone's waiting for you, in any case."

"What?" Roahn turned around and, to her dismay, found Skye leaning against a nearby pillar, still in the same position from when she had left the confines of the Kodiak. The human gave Roahn an expectant look, as if the quarian had been somehow inconveniencing her from her perceived dawdling.

_Keelah, she's persistent._

Roahn was not about to give Skye the satisfaction of her attention. Not yet, at least. Instead, she walked over to the armor station and sat down at one of the benches nearest to her regulation locker. She unclasped the silver wrist guards and shin plates she had attached to herself prior to the skirmish and set them aside. She then set to work at unbuckling the protective shoulder plating that had amplified her shielding and bulked up her profile. That too tumbled to the ground in less than a minute. She then set the partial armor set into her locker, making sure to lift them aloft upon the slots that jutted out within the space, presenting her protective coverings on a calculated display.

After surrendering her weapons to the armorer, Roahn finally headed towards the elevator, which was when Skye (predictably) chose this as her moment to finally vacate the area with her. The quarian side-eyed the woman as she sidled up next to her, but did not acknowledge her. The frosty mood persisted as they finally stepped inside the open lift—Roahn then pressed the button for the third level, where her quarters were located.

The silence was broken by a cough from Skye, who succeeded in drawing Roahn's attention towards her, even if it was for only a second.

"Look, Roahn, I—"

"Forget it," Roahn brusquely cut her off, staring straight ahead towards the closed door while wondering why this damned elevator was taking so long to move between floors.

"No," Skye emphasized. "Don't shut me out now. When I shot that man down there… you have to understand that I thought there was nothing else that I could do. I figured I had him dead-to-rights. I just didn't want you hurt."

Roahn's eyes found the ceiling, almost in the hopes that there would be an escape route that she could utilize in that very spot. "While I… appreciate the sentiment, Skye," she said, "there's really not much for us to discuss. The Chorus commander drew on me. You reacted. I was unhurt, and that's it."

"That's _it?_" Skye repeated thickly.

The direction of Roahn's gaze flicked back and forth expectantly as she held her hands behind her back. "You feel there was more to it?"

"Don't you?"

The quarian considered her words before giving a slight shrug, right as the doors opened, allowing a halo of light to fall upon the edges of her mask. "Nope," was all she had to say before she left Skye behind, free from the human's presence again.

Thoughts churned within Roahn in a dark haze as she treaded the now-familiar path back to her room. It was obvious that Skye had been alluding to more base emotions in her hasty explanation for the reactionary shot back on Aurigal. As crafty as the human could be, she was terrible in masking her intentions. Was Skye going to supply her with excuses for her actions or would she finally have shown a sliver of self-awareness in admitting the true factor behind her reactions?

Roahn was not going to state it out loud because it was not at all her place to make that declaration. But even if Skye wanted to conceal her true feelings or not, the answer had been out in the open ever since she had stepped foot on board the _Menhir_.

Skye was still infatuated with Roahn.

It seemed bizarre and oddly repetitious for this feeling to have overcome Skye, Roahn figured. Despite how strongly they had felt for the other in the past, that ship had sailed so long ago that common sense decreed that the previous threads that tied them together had been completely sheared away. Apparently that was not the case. Though Roahn found it odd that Skye would be so dogged in her pursuit when she had been the sole factor for their relationship dissolving in the first place. A person with common sense would have realized by now that the past was in the past and whatever had been broken could never be fully reformed.

Or could it?

She shook her head with a grunt, angered that she could even think of such a thing. Roahn did not need to add self-loathing on top of the multitude of troubles that plagued her. Rekindling that flame seemed like an exercise in insanity. If disaster happened once, it could surely happen again. No, best not to dwell anymore on this for now. She was confident that there would be a definite sign, a show from Skye that she had indeed changed, that would indicate to Roahn that something could be re-forged between them aside from these teasing and frankly immature displays.

Until then, arm's length it was going to be.

Roahn clenched the back of her jaw as a subtle twinge ran down the edges of her left fingers. She considered her prosthetic arm as she imagined soft red electric bolts crawling along the back of her hand, the manifestation of pain creeping upon her like an insect. She clenched a fist, throttling the sensation. This would not do at all. Time to see if the doctor had something to take the edge off.

Luckily, Roahn was seconds away from where the med bay was on the ship. There was only a slightly curved corner that Roahn had to navigate, with the embedded floor lights making a gentle white path and acting as a luminescent guide. The corridor opened up into the mess hall, where the wide brewhouse-style bench took up a significant portion of the open space afforded to the area. Roahn made a note to grab a canister of food after her visit with Sam to quell this new rumble in her stomach. Something laced heavily with protein, she figured. Assorted nuts and dried fruit sounded good. She began salivating at the thought.

Anything but nutrient paste, she hoped.

She then crossed into the med bay, her visor adjusting the brightness level to account for the increased illumination as befitting a room of this nature. She was about to open her mouth to address the doctor when she realized that she had just made an unintentional intrusion.

Sam's body armor lay in a disorganized heap near the door. The blood that had smeared onto the chestplate had dried and turned a muddy brown color. At his desk, Sam sat with the back of his chair facing towards the door, making him momentarily unaware of any arrivals. Where he was facing, the holographic projection of another person—a fellow quarian—stood amidst molecules of light in a focused and almost blinding storm atop the desk. The hologram, animated and looking upon the human with kindness, reached only a few feet in height, but that was enough to make them the center of attention for the doctor, who was reclining in his seat, talking to the quarian on the other end of the holo-call.

The projection of the quarian turned to face Roahn. Even at this distance, Roahn could tell that this person had started to smile behind the visor. The slight bump of the shoulders. The rapid blink of the eyes. It was all in the body language. Completely obvious to fellow quarians.

"_You have a visitor, Sam_," the hologram said, its voice low and breathy.

Sam turned in his chair, surprised to find Roahn in his abode so soon after the mission had ended. Roahn shifted her feet nervously.

"I can come back another time," she jerked her thumb the way she came but Sam shook his head.

"No, it's all right. I was just finishing up this call. Besides, you two know each other anyway."

"_Indeed we do_," the quarian in the call affirmed. "_Hello, Roahn_."

Roahn stepped forward tenderly, her hands meshing together in a self-conscious tic. "Hello, Nya."

Nyareth'McLeod, or Nya as she preferred to be called, was Sam's wife of many years. It was on Roahn's first venture out of Rannoch that she had met the woman and the rest of Sam's family. She had been a little girl back then. Nya used to be a pilot for C-Sec, of all things, but had made the successful transition into management at a large shipyard conglomerate. Whenever Roahn had periodically visited the McLeod household on earth to visit her friend, Taylor, Nya would be the constant presence, making sure that the girl's stay was perfect in every regard. In time, Roahn had even come to consider the house in the forested hills by the sea her second home. It had been filled with people who cared about her and she felt completely comfortable with.

In the lens of the projector, Nya unfolded her arms in a welcoming gesture. The hologram saturated the dark colors of the elder quarian's enviro-suit, but Roahn could still discern the sleek gray ribbons that marked Nya's _sehni_ as well as the flash of crimson that encrusted her visor.

"_I heard that you two just had an interesting time out with your captain_," Nya remarked mirthfully to Roahn. "_It looks like my husband's still in one piece. Do I have you to thank for that, Roahn?_"

"Actually," Roahn began to correct, "I—"

"Yes, she was a great protector out there," Sam interrupted, rotating just slightly in his seat to deliver Roahn a wink, out of sight from his wife. "There was nothing to be afraid of with her and Garrus at the helm. I'm in safe hands, dear. Don't worry."

Nya's hologram nodded in relief. _"Oh, good. Though I suppose there's not much to fear when you're surrounded by such talented people. Roahn, you will make sure that my bosh'tet of a mate doesn't get hurt during your travels, won't you?"_

"I can't speak to anything self-inflicted," Roahn shrugged, "but yes. I'll keep a good watch over him."

Sam rolled his eyes, used to his wife's teasing manner of speaking. "Yeah, yeah. Well, this _bosh'tet_ is perfectly capable of keeping himself out of harm's way, to an extent."

"_Emphasis on 'extent,_'" Nya quipped.

"Quiet, you," Sam could not help but smile as he jabbed a finger in Nya's direction. "I'll give you a call in the next solar day, dear. For now…"

"_Duty calls?_"

"Something like that. After all, a patient has lined up outside my door."

"_I won't keep you_," Nya clasped her hands together lovingly. "_But don't take long, Sam._"

The doctor's grin seemed to split his entire face. Only his family had the ability to unlock the purest depths of his joy. "Never."

"Give Taylor my best when you next see her," Roahn called towards the slowly dissolving Nya, the connection between the two in the process of being broken.

"_I shall_," the quarian promised as a cascade of snow-like static whipped at her form before she was ultimately swept away. "_She'll be so happy to hear what you've been up to_."

The glow that had warmed Sam's face died at the exact same moment that the image of his wife disintegrated into nothingness. He slumped a bit in his chair, temporarily overcome, as he appraised the dead space where Nya had been standing, keeping her memory secure inside his mind for a few more moments, every miniscule detail memorized with loving precision.

Sam pensively tapped his fingers upon the armrests of his chair as his head slowly shook back and forth, his eyes locked in place. "A secure residency at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the galaxy," he mused out loud. "I had job security. An above-average salary. An acceptable commute between my work and home. God, I must have been crazy to accept this job, Roahn. I must have gone insane when Garrus first offered me the gig."

"He can be persuasive when he wants to," Roahn said as she walked up to take the other chair at Sam's desk. She wheeled it around and leaned forward eagerly. "You're thinking you made a mistake in coming along with us?"

The human put a hand to his bearded chin thoughtfully before giving his head another shake. "Not a mistake. This is no mistake. Impulsive on my part, maybe, but not something that I would completely regret."

"You're afraid that you'll get hurt while you have a family," Roahn nodded.

"That's always a possibility. But I try not to dwell on that too much. Even if… the worst should come to pass… my family would be fine. Yet, even with that over my head, that's not what's bothering me. It's just this feeling… this sense that… ah, I don't even know how to explain it."

Roahn did, and she slowly went over every syllable of the next string of words she was about to offer before she gave them voice.

"You had felt that there was a part of your life that was unfulfilled until this point."

Sam's eyebrows raised, intrigued. He glanced over, automatically finding the piercing and experienced sort of gaze that betrayed a history of intense conversations with quarians. Most people fumbled to find the proper angle to look at a quarian's eyes through their visor. Sam got the look in on the first try.

"Perhaps," he simply stated. "But I wonder if that's the reason _you'd_ give me if I turned that question back around?"

The quarian clamped her jaw shut, not knowing what to say. It was unnecessary, anyhow, as the unflinching and stone-like look the doctor was sending in her direction told Roahn that he knew what the answer was going to be. His hand covered his mouth thoughtfully and a finger slowly tapped a tattoo near his temple.

The two sat in silence for only five seconds. Might as well have been five hours.

The spell was broken when Sam dropped his mystique and rapidly settled into his more professional guise. "So, you probably didn't come in to hear me wax on about my inner thoughts. What did you need me for, Roahn?"

She offered her prosthesis forward as her only explanation. Sam only needed a second to ascertain the situation.

"You _were_ told that the pain could not be mitigated completely."

"I know," Roahn said, voice rasping to a near plea. "I don't want painkillers for this. The last thing I need is to be hooked on medication."

"We'll try the radiofrequency method," Sam said as he opened up his holo-console and hovered a display right in front of his face. He scrolled past a variety of menus and made a few rapid taps on the interface, digging deeper and deeper into the program log base before he found what he wanted. "Right, it looks like your implants already have the necessary module installed. I'll set them to fire off indiscernible electric pulses in your brain the next time you get some REM sleep. That'll cut down on the false signals your nervous system receives from the damaged nerves. It won't be the be-all-end-all solution you're looking for, but at least it's something."

"Thank you, Sam."

"Don't mention it, kid," the doctor deactivated his display with a wave. "Is there anything else?"

The quarian twitched a prosthetic finger. "That's all I need."

"Good. Now go on, get out of here. Get a bite to eat and get some sleep, for god's sake."

"_Second person to say that to me in the last ten minutes_," Roahn murmured, not quite to herself. She rose from the chair to leave before she was struck by a thought. "Sam?"

"Yes, Roahn?"

The quarian's eyes momentarily found the floor—a brief loss of nerve. She raised her head again as her posture took on a meeker position. Resigned and levelled from tiredness, her breath slithered in a whispering inhalation.

"About what happened on the shuttle right down… I have to apologize for what Skye said to you. That was uncalled for. She shouldn't have been so forward like that."

There was a careful flicker in Sam's face. Clearly he had not expected Roahn to take this sudden left turn in their conversation, but he was able to rapidly adjust. He absorbed the apology as he slowly leaned his back upon his chair, which rocked inflexibly.

"In the end, I'm not bothered by it all that much," he ended up supplying a shrug. "She brought up something that happened… a long time ago. The two of you don't need to apologize to me for that. Most people would assume that I've lived a charmed life, at first glance. They never expect—or at least consider—that many of us are hiding qualities most would find unsavory. We all deliberately blind ourselves to see only the positives in people, you know?"

Roahn nearly reeled as she took in the human's words. "Then… it's true. You really _did_ kill your own brother-in-law."

"_Step_-brother-in-law, technically," Sam waggled a hand back and forth to emphasize his nonchalant-ness. "Don't know if there is a proper term for that or not. He was Nya's half-brother. And that was… _damn_… many years ago. Probably before even you were born. Never really thought about it much until now, honestly."

Roahn had to grip the back of the chair she had just vacated for support. All these years, she knew that Sam had been rather tight-lipped on his past to her but this was certainly not something she could have expected. As time had passed when she had grown older, Sam had increasingly provided her with little glimpses into his younger life, when he had used to be a combat medic during the Reaper War. The human's smaller-scale viewpoint of the devastation was a sobering reminder that her father's actions journeying from world to world were an anomaly. The people stuck on their shattered planets, dying in the trenches, had to face a constant stream of horrors both from outside and from within.

But the face of the man in front of her reflected few, if any, of the atrocities that could have imprinted their way upon him.

"Do you have any regrets about it?" Roahn asked him.

Now Sam laughed, a sporadic moment of jollity that pierced the murky gloom. "_Of course not_. Roahn, I'll probably go to my grave without even feeling an iota of remorse toward what I did. Ask Nya, she'll probably agree with me. The man I killed all that time ago has largely been forgotten by the galaxy. The last thing left to eradicate is his memory, and that will die with my wife and me. He terrorized my family, threatened them with death because he had an inferiority complex. He saw the life that I had built with my wife and wanted to punish me for being better off than he was. I killed him to keep my wife and child safe when it was clear that there he would never let it go."

A pensive silence had fallen upon the quarian and Sam let Roahn process his words for a bit. She was still leaning forward, holding onto the chair, as a distant look overtook her. Sam then stood from his own chair and walked a few paces from the woman, hands shoved into his pockets.

"I know it may seem heartless, killing someone who's not a soldier in cold blood," he said. "It's also probably one hell of a shock to you, seeing as I've never brought this up for as long as we've known each other. But I don't let it haunt me in the moments to myself. I've made peace with my conscience because I know with every fiber of my being that I killed someone to protect the people that I love. It was the only thing that I could have done—the _right_ thing. Now, with that in mind, do you think you could do the same, with our roles reversed?"

She could have supplied the answer immediately. It was blindingly obvious that her lips mouthed the word before her brain even had time to fully take stock of the question. If she could protect everyone? A slew of images came to mind of her being thrust in between her own friends and family and a shadowy figure draped in fire and death. She saw herself acting as their shield, their guardian. In her mind's eye, she could look back and see a bevy of faces that she held under her mantle of protection: her father, her mother, Nya, Taylor, Garrus—

…and Skye?

Yes… even her, evidentially.

_Ah, well_. Roahn clenched her eyes shut, but the afterimage continued to persist. Slowly, agonizingly, she opened them again, finding that she had clenched her prosthesis in a fist so tight that the metallic components were starting to creak from the stress. The hydraulics let out a feeble hiss as she relaxed her grip, her fingers springing open almost in relief.

"Without hesitation," she finally growled.

The doctor did not press her for more. Instead, he gave her an affectionate smile and a firm pat on the shoulder. A protective and tender gesture. A sign of acceptance.

"Go and get some sleep, Roahn," Sam winked at her before he headed back to his chair. "Long days are ahead and we've much to do."

* * *

Departing the med bay in a swirl of drowsiness and muddled thoughts, Roahn headed back to her room in an aimless path, still fully intent on following Sam's advice as long as external forces were not destined to collide with her existence. She did take note that her hunger had vanished, leaving her with a crippling desire for some sleep. At the same time and perhaps fortuitously, Garrus had been walking by on the other side of the mess hall. The two caught each other's eye as their paths converged.

"Productive meeting with the good doctor?" Garrus asked as they came within conversational distance. He had dressed out of his armor and was wearing the snappy dark gray uniform of a turian officer. No rank was emblazoned, just the elegant slash that was Umbra's logo just over his chest. A pistol hung to his hip, though it was securely fastened.

Roahn nodded, a delayed reaction. The contents of the talk she had just had with Sam were still bouncing with a frenzy in her head. The haloed lights above her head hummed minutely—the distractions felt like they were warping her thoughts.

"Substantial, more like."

"Doing fine? No aches and pains or…" the turian trailed off, unable or perhaps unwilling to directly indicate the obvious source of a potential affliction for Roahn.

She flexed her prosthesis, catching his drift. "Nothing I can't handle. Was about to take a few hours to rest, actually." She tapped a finger upon the side of her helmet, cushioned by Tali's _sehni_. "Let my mind do the healing. Ruined nerve pathways need attention."

"Far be it from me to be in the way of that," Garrus raised his hands, a show that he had no thoughts about taking up a good chunk of Roahn's time. But it seemed that might have been a premature conclusion, as barely three seconds had passed since the two of them had picked up their previous paces towards their differing destinations that Garrus looked behind him and called out to the departing quarian, "One question, Roahn."

Roahn turned, awaiting what the turian had to say.

Garrus' jaw opened, testing on how to frame this opening before he proceeded. "On Aurigal, there was that one moment where you had that near miss from Skye, with that commander being killed inches away from you. I have to say that she was technically right to fire, considering her point of view, but it was still a close call. Was that sort of conduct satisfactory for you?"

Roahn paused, unsure of where this was going. "Why do you ask, Garrus?"

"I just want to know if you were okay with that. I have to make sure that everyone's safe on this team. If someone feels that they're in danger, I have to address it."

_Trust_. The word had a heavy emphasis upon it. What was Garrus trying to say?

She managed to put on a knowing face. "You've been paying attention to someone."

"Comes with experience."

"As far as I'm concerned," she stated carefully after taking a moment of consideration, "I'm perfectly fine with how Skye acted. She felt she had a shot, she took it, and she hit her mark. Pretty exemplary marksmanship, which comes as no surprise to me."

"Because you _know_ her?" Garrus probed, eyes squinting to take note of the quarian's every reaction.

It was only then did Roahn realize that she had slipped up. _Damn it_. If the turian had not held any suspicions before, he certainly did now after hinting at Skye's skill. She still had not told Garrus that she had trained with Skye in the Defenders together, let alone that they had been an item (though there was no way that Roahn was even ready to broach _that_ topic with her captain quite yet). She stilled her entire body, focusing in on only the crawling tempo her breathing had settled into. Her eye contact with Garrus had never been broken and she made an effort to perform intermittent blinks lest Garrus become even more suspicious.

"We served together in Basic, yes," Roahn offered. "Same training unit, but we had received different assignments after our six weeks were up." She had heard once that the best lies had a certain degree of truth to them. By plying Garrus with this sort of truth and omitting the part of her history most would consider to be sordid, her narrative could eventually find sanctuary as the unambiguous and absolute reality.

The turian did not betray any indication that he either accepted or rejected the answer, keeping his face stoic. "I _thought_ that I was noticing a hint of camaraderie between you two."

Roahn had to struggle not to make a disgruntled face at that.

"Though I wonder why you didn't bring this up when we were going over recruits for the team," he continued. "I would have given your endorsement significant weight."

She now realized that Garrus had bought her answer. She began to relax. "You had come up with the decision all by yourself on Skye, remember?" she reminded. "Besides, you picked her because you thought she would be an asset due to her skills. I think that carries more weight than just picking from a list of the people I've associated with."

Garrus nodded in agreement, briefly becoming distant. "No, you're right about that. It's probably for the best that Skye is on this team for professional reasons rather than personal. Yes, you're absolutely right about that, Roahn."

_Did you hear that?_ a voice in Roahn's head mocked. _You're absolutely right. No personal reasons whatsoever._

Clearly her subconscious was warring against her better interests.

"Funny," she managed to unclench her jaw, "that was the exact same thing that I said to Skye when she first came on board. We're all professionals here, after all."

"That we are, but we don't need to reassure each other of that fact. Besides, I've wasted enough of your time as it is. Go follow the doc's advice and take a few hours. Hell, take several. You don't sleep enough as it is. Your mother was just as bad as you at that."

"A work ethic is genetic," Garrus heard Roahn murmur as she slunk off in the direction of her cabin. He stayed where he was until the quarian had rounded the corner, satisfied that she was actually going to take some time to wind down.

It was imperative that soldiers had to rest after a combat mission, Garrus had learned. Failing to do so hastened burnout, made one's efforts sloppy. Not allowing the mind to recover also risked potential underlying damage to occur, leading to complications down the line in the years to come.

Garrus then proceeded on the previous route he had embarked on before he had linked up with Roahn. He passed by the commissary line without a second glance (he tended to not have much of an appetite after missions) and embarked up the small staircase, past the three rows of sleeper pods that lined the ovular hallway that led to the main battery. He had to duck his head as he entered, immersing himself in a deep and dark red shade that fell over him like an upended jar of paint. The hard blue light from his eyepiece, searing like diamonds, acted as the brightest source of illumination in the room, though its scope was limited. Garrus had no trouble seeing in such low light, anyway. He had spent so long in rooms like these that he liked to believe that he had gained an above-average night vision as a result.

There was the tender sound of a body shuffling around in this very room. Slowly, Garrus turned his head, finding that his old commanding officer was leaning against the battery's workbench, his lone eye glinting in the darkness while a maddening smile encroached upon his face.

"I know," Garrus said defensively. "You're not at all surprised."

That just made Shepard's smile grow wider. "Old habits tend to die hard, but you certainly fit the definition of 'predictable' sometimes, Vakarian."

"There are worse virtues to be the living embodiment of," the turian pointed out as he instinctively made his way to the gun battery console, opening up a new dialogue box for his uses. Fingers tapped against holographic keys while Shepard rose (with a little degree of difficulty) from where he had been leaning.

"This ship _has_ technicians to do all this stuff on your behalf," Shepard said, mouth still rimmed with amusement. "The captain doesn't have to perform the pre-fire checks on the weapons systems—he delegates subordinates for that."

"Would you believe me if I find it somewhat cathartic? You had your model ships. I have this. We all have different ways to de-stress."

Shepard shrugged. "If you say so."

The two men let the silence stand for a few minutes. Shepard just simply hovered over the turian's shoulder and watched his friend work. Lines of MX code typed out in rapid fashion—a habit that was evidentially hard to forget for the turian. This was all part of the suite of checks that Garrus had been previously responsible for on the _Normandy_. Hashing out tracking errors. Swapping damaged optical bearings. Testing ranging distances on the Thanix guns. Placing control spots on a grid overlay to test projectile bearings. Simulated runs based on input schema.

Now Shepard knew why Garrus had always asked to be left alone while he was nose-deep in this sort of work. It had the tendency to command quite a bit of attention.

Arms crossed, Shepard shifted his weight from foot to foot as he noticed Garrus' expression grow more and more frustrated as his forehead grew closer and closer to the screen. "Trying to find some area where you can make even the smallest improvement?"

The turian grunted. "The techs here certainly are thorough."

"I should hope so. That just means that they're doing their jobs."

Annoyed, Garrus finally closed the dialogue box with a wave of his hand, shutting the console down. "I'll do a thorough drill-down of the _Menhir's_ systems when I get some free time later, I guess."

"Keep dreaming, Vakarian. You're going to find that the captain's schedule tends to book all the way full quite fast."

Garrus made an exaggerated gesture of despondency, ultimately disappointed but not at all in bad spirits or honestly surprised at the responsibilities that his station entailed.

"How'd the team work out on Aurigal?" Shepard abruptly changed the topic, eager to finally broach the subject with his friend—the very reason he had been hanging out in the gun battery, after all.

Mere mention of the skirmish had the immediate effect of lifting Garrus' spirits, in turn intriguing Shepard. The turian's eyes widened drastically with the eagerness akin to someone hopped up on too many caffeine pills. Shepard even spotted that there was a minute shake in the turian's hands—a sign that already Garrus had an anecdote to share.

"Very, very promising," Garrus said. "Reminiscent of the old days, definitely. We engaged the PMC that was down on the surface and did not suffer a single casualty. Not even a scratch."

"Performed well under fire?"

"I'd say so. Very little, if any, issues that I saw. We had good communication and coordination. Superior fire discipline, for the most part. Everyone also showed good degrees of adaptability. They were a squad I was completely comfortable with commanding. Now I'm interested to rotate Grunt and Korridon into the thick of things, see how _they_ end up faring with the others."

Shepard nodded, some of Garrus' infectious ardor already creeping its way upon him. "And Roahn? How'd she do out there?"

The question was not framed to serve as a vehicle to introduce suspicion and Garrus was cognizant enough not to take it like that.

Garrus wistfully sighed. "Shepard, she was completely capable. She behaved extraordinarily well under fire. Didn't let the danger faze her."

The elder human's smile cracked through his stark white goatee, projecting a tiny chuckle while he maintained a subtle nod. The turian considered the response from his friend, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"You didn't need me to tell you that, did you? You just wanted to brag about your daughter."

Now Shepard uttered a jubilant laugh. "I never had a doubt in my mind about her, Garrus. I figured she would not let this chance slip through her fingers."

"Well, then you'll be glad to know that she's just like her old man. Competent, skilled, and able to adapt the plan on the fly. All the hallmarks of a great commander. If anything, I'm itching to get back out there, to have a mission that requires more strategy so that she can start to develop her own leadership style with the team."

"That opportunity will come, believe me. There's always someone out there that needs our help."

"And we've been in this same position before." The turian became considerate as he weighed the quiet against his thoughts. "The galaxy doesn't deserve what you did, my friend. They had this once-in-a-millennia chance and they threw it all away. We almost had a unified galaxy, but it was yanked away from us by people who wanted to make a few extra credits rather than do what was right. We're out here, trying to help in the best way we can see fit, but we won't be able to make this idea—the ruination of the galaxy—stick in the minds of the people. They'll never learn what they did wrong to screw this up."

"Then we have to make sure that we find the answer," Shepard said. "It's out there, I'm sure of it."

"Maybe something will be different this time around. Still the same Vakarian, but the Shepards have doubled."

Now Garrus approached the guardrail that separated the main console of the battery from the thin staircase that greeted newcomers to the room. He spread his arms and settled his weight upon the railing, with Shepard repeating the same movement on the other side. Garrus fixated the human with calm and watchful eyes, appreciating the satisfying familiarity that had permeated this entire conversation.

"You _should_ be proud of her," he said. "Roahn, I mean. She's never going to quit. She's a fighter."

"Her mother's daughter," Shepard mused.

"_And_ her father's," the turian lifted a slender finger.

The human smiled at that and gave a distant look towards the wall. If only there had been a window there to steal his gaze. "Tali would have loved to have seen what sort of woman Roahn's become. She's never left my thoughts—I keep trying to imagine what she would think, what she would say, if she was with me now."

"She never left _any_ of us," Garrus straightened as his voice dipped a half-step. "I think about her every day, just as I know you do. Tali would have been overjoyed to see how you raised Roahn, to carry out the life she wanted you to live."

"Just like what she wanted for you too," Shepard said gently. "A life fulfilled. All regrets pushed away."

The hum of the gun battery became an overpowering throb, a buzzing nest of hornets that seemed to increase a few ticks in volume.

Garrus flicked his eyes away, feeling uneasy.

Shepard's fingers tapped out an uneven signal upon the railing. "You don't wear Kasumi's ring anymore, I've noticed."

Upon hearing his friend speak those words, Garrus' fingers unconsciously came together. His six dry and talon-like digits nervously rubbed against one another as a tiny diameter traced its way around his bare left middle finger.

"Is it too late for the both of you to change your minds?"

There was a significant beat of silence as Garrus struggled to answer right away. He spread his hands almost apologetically and beseeched the ceiling in a wordless prayer. "We… we just don't know what we're going to do with… us. We've never been able to find any easy answers."

Shepard nodded reassuringly. "But the two of you still care for the other."

"Yes," Garrus agreed. "Yes, we do. But it… I… I don't think Kas really wanted me to go back to my work. I tried to put it all off, a contract for C-Sec here, an advisory capacity for the Hierarchy there. Over time, it became that I was working a regular job again. I was leaving her alone too much and she… she resented it. She told me so to my face many times, and I respected her for doing that. I simply felt that I had this obligation to re-immerse myself into a military role because it… it seemed—"

"—Like the right thing to do," Shepard finished.

Garrus pointed a finger. "Exactly. I couldn't make that disconnect from my old life like you were able to, Shepard. I was never able to fully let go. Kas wanted what she thought was better for me—and maybe she was right. She wanted me home, to have a nice desk job, and… and maybe kids, who knows? Things just… didn't work out the way either of us hoped."

Slowly, the low lighting seemed to take on a staggeringly slow strobe. Both Garrus and Shepard's shadowed faces became craggy, lined with canyons of darkness.

"A future you dread?" Shepard asked.

Sinking further and further into the deep recesses that the blotting corners of dusky obscurity provided, Garrus felt coddled as he struggled to utter his next few words.

"A break from the routine I had ground out over several years. The unknown was always too formidable for me to overcome."

At some level, Shepard understood his friend's dilemma, but he was nowhere near close to completely empathizing with him. There had been some natural despondency when he and Tali had been separated when their lives had momentarily pulled them in separate directions, but they had come back to each other in the end. They had seemed to know that their isolation would be temporary.

For Garrus, however…

"If you asked," he said, "do you think she would come to you?"

Garrus considered the question, mulling it over three times before he found the courage to speak. In front of his dearest friend, it was impossible to lie, though the truth remained difficult.

"If I asked… she would find me. She would not ask any questions."

"But you won't ask her."

Garrus let a melancholy chortle slip out. "I'd just end up disappointing her. And I'm terrified to even think of doing that to her again."

* * *

_Citadel__  
Faction Leader's Office_

The secretary led Cirae Idetha past the milky and veined Cassia-leaf glass lattice doors as the hovering green icon—indicating an unlocked door—ebbed away in a spasmodic blast of static. The assistant simply stopped at the partition between the room and the outside hall, gesturing for the asari to take the lead. Cirae did so without a second glance and a chill soon swept over her as the doors slid shut at her back.

Faction Leader Irissa sat at a cone-shaped desk several meters away at the far end of the room, currently concentrated on a brief of some sorts upon her console. The flat top of the desk was a wide circle of polished steel, glinting from the light the windows threw in. The desk itself only had a singular point—the tip of the cone—upon which it was balanced. Cirae suspected that a miniature gravity generator had been installed in the furnishing to keep it permanently upright. She wondered how much a desk like that would cost. If it was less than a hundred thousand credits, she would be surprised.

The heels of Cirae's shoes clicked noisily upon the chalk white stone floor. Genetically modified shale, smoothed and polished to a high sheen, bleached an immersive color of cream. She walked past a set of low couches and a coffee table, both exquisitely crafted and retaining a curvaceous yet minimalist design. More expensive accoutrements to project Irissa's position… and wealth.

Cirae swept her gaze towards all ends of the room. This was the first time she had ever set foot in this place. Oval-shaped, Irissa's office was wide and mostly empty—echoes had a tendency to find a long residence in these confines. A few impressionist paintings lined the walls and Cirae was especially surprised to find a bookcase built into the left side of the room, where ancient tomes in a multitude of languages filled the stacks—another ostentatious display. Directly behind where Irissa sat, a gigantic pill-shaped window beckoned of a view that hovered over one of the Citadel's arms, projecting the razors of light that were the skycar lanes down below as they maneuvered through the steel grids. Had Cirae not spent a good amount of time on space stations before, her stomach would have given a massive churn at the dizzying sight.

There was a singular empty chair positioned in front of the desk. Cirae could only surmise that she was meant to occupy it. Still, this meant that, due to the desk's wide circumference, there would be at least a meter of distance between the two.

A humorous thought comparing the size of the desk to Irissa's ego came to Cirae's head. Massively inflated and not much in it.

She walked up to the empty chair but did not sit in it just yet. Cirae folded her hands in front of her, smoothing out any subtle wrinkles in her oxblood-colored dress. Irissa still did not look up at her, seeming to be deliberately ignoring her as she continued to send messages on her system.

After enough time had passed where Cirae had tolerated this rudeness, she cleared her throat. "Your message said that you wished to speak to me, Faction Leader?"

Only Irissa's eyes flicked upwards to meet Cirae's. "Sit down, representative."

Cirae wondered if Irissa had ever levelled a sentence with the barest flicker of warmth to anyone in her life. It was rumored that the faction leader had never had a mate in her lifetime, among certain circles. Still, the younger asari complied, but kept her face neutral.

Irissa then closed her console and then proceeded to slowly lean forward over her desk. Not a singular muscle on her body moved as she considered the younger politician before her. Cirae silently fumed, knowing that the elder asari was doing all of this to build suspense, to project intimidation.

Irissa then spoke, "I think that you can imagine that I'm disappointed, Representative Idetha."

Cirae had an idea as to what Irissa was referring to, but unfortunately for the faction leader, she had something of a hatred for vague statements. She knew that Irissa was just beating around the bush, trying to forestall the moments before the venomous strike, perhaps in an attempt to get Cirae to approach the topic first, thereby letting Irissa have the upper hand.

Phony psychological tricks just made Cirae mad. She decided to knock off Irissa's timing.

"I'm a bit uncertain as to what you're referring to," she coolly replied.

That certainly had an effect. Irissa's mouth twisted in a grotesque display, obviously enraged that the younger politician was not having the sort of cowed reaction that she had envisioned.

"Do you enjoy being obtuse on purpose?" Irissa seethed.

"It is not something that I have an affinity to," Cirae retorted, pleased that she was able to keep her composure better than her opponent right off the bat. "And I think that you can forgive me for not wanting to make any assumptions."

A cold smile flitted across Irissa's face. "Cute, representative. You guard yourself well, but it will only end up working against you. No, the reason I'm disappointed in you is because you seem to have forgotten our conversation the other day. Your blatant ignorance of my advice will serve to be yet another cut that bleeds us dry, that exposes a problematic symptom afflicting this Assembly: discord. I told you that I wanted to project a united front, Idetha. Apparently you'd rather focus on your own needs than that of your people's future. That is what jeopardizes us. When you fail to adhere to your station, we get exposed. That was why we lost so much influence after the war. It's why we cannot afford to lose any more."

Irissa still had not revealed the true source of her consternation, Cirae noted. All this crap she was currently espousing was a front, a buildup in an attempt to strengthen her stance. She kept silent, which seemed to amplify the faction leader's annoyance.

"Login records show that you attended a Committee of Council Authority meeting a couple of days ago," Irissa finally arrived at the point, confirming Cirae's suspicions of the topic in question. The faction leader gave a cruel smirk. "Funny, I _know_ that you're not a member of that committee. In fact, you're not a member of any committee at all. Which leads me to an interesting conclusion and a natural question to follow. Who in their right mind would elect to sponsor _you_ to sit on such a meeting, hmm?"

The sheer indigence Cirae was struggling to hold back had to be wafting off of her in radioactive waves. Miraculously, the only reaction she betrayed was a slight narrow of her eyes. She could take these insults, despite the fact that they had no basis to be delivered unto her for the sheer reason of simply existing.

"If you have an issue with the way I conducted myself," Cirae said after a beat, "you may try and introduce an amendment to fit with your needs. Better yet, open an investigation. I behaved completely within the purview of Assembly guidelines, Irissa. You and I both know that, having received an invitation to the committee meeting, I had every right to attend."

"Don't talk back to me like that," Irissa warned, her face stiffening, clearly unused at being told what to do.

"I'm not going to sit here and let you insult me when I have done nothing wrong. I told you before that I didn't come here to be muzzled."

"Yet it's the _convenience_ of it all that frustrates me. It is obvious that you have this misplaced drive to immerse yourself into gaining additional responsibilities but you don't seem to take into account the impact of what gaining those responsibilities actually means. You're too impatient for your own good, Idetha. The insight you obtain from these committee meetings is more valuable when prudential minds have time to digest it. Whatever you gain, you seek to immediately dispense without a thought towards whom it might hurt. The Assembly is in the business of minimizing damage, representatives. We maintain a semblance of order so the common person does not have to dwell on the governances placed upon their lives. Pursuing to break that narrative just places people in danger."

"What I _pursue_," Cirae emphasized as she too began to lean forward, "are simple and undeniable facts. The truth may hurt people, but it's a wound that can heal, unlike lies. Feed enough people lies and they'll bleed out when something finally cuts them."

"And I suppose _you've_ come to that realization all on your own, yes?" Irissa responded, tilting her head as she shifted her body at an angle in her seat.

The hollow and uncomfortable tension had finally reached a fever pitch. A dark red frequency was booming soundless in Cirae's ears. Her heartrate began a slow rise and she had the urge to clench her fingers as they currently lay upon the desk. Just then, it seemed like she realized the inherent danger that Irissa presented. The breadth of the factors unknown to her seemed to necklace around her head, dragging her down beneath the waves with their heavy weight.

The two asari kept staring at the other across the plain of the glimmering desk, a raging and intense battle all conducted in silence.

"No one has a paradisiac past, Idetha," Irissa growled as her grin grew to sinister proportions. "Some of us can simply see past the stains. I wonder… if you look at yourself, are _you_ immaculate?"

Now something was fighting to take a stranglehold to Cirae's throat. Hidden tremors floated through her tendons and nerves. Her eyeballs ached as they begged to move away, to cease staring at the similar organs upon Irissa. She was so rigid that it hurt.

Satisfied that she had apparently gotten something out of this encounter, Irissa relaxed as she raised her hands, below which a holographic keyboard glowed to life. "Perhaps soon you'll be able to find that a more cooperative mindset suits your political ascendancy, representative. Certainly abiding by your race would be a start." She started to tap on the keys, inputting commands into one of the tools available at her disposal. "You wish to be granted duties of increasing importance? You will, if you reveal your sponsor to me. Tell me who gave you that information, and you'll be taken off of what I call 'the blacklist.' Succinctly put, anyone on this list will find that their political clout and their immediate plans for their career will suddenly dry up, if not thrown to a complete halt. You will join a list of hundreds of names, hundreds of hopefuls that have had their dreams dashed all because they wanted to play by their own rules. If you do not reveal your sponsor to me, I swear by the goddess that I will block you from ever being considered from even the lowest committee. I will turn your own constituents on you that they'll be _begging_ to have you replaced before long. You will retire to a subpar estate on Thessia, your political career having dwindled to an ignominious ember. Your life will be a constant reminder of how you once had the opportunity to make a difference… and despite that wondrous chance… you accomplished _nothing_."

_Nothing_. The word embedded itself into Cirae's body. It slipped into her skin and wriggled around in her mind. Her dry mouth felt like it was crackling and sloughing away. In the face of the powerful anger that Irissa commanded, Cirae felt that she was one gentle breeze away from toppling over completely.

Such indigence, all for her desire to adopt a moral outlook.

But… why did this deserve anger anyway? Why did there have to be penalties for following a righteous path? Unless…

Unrighteousness reigned supreme within the walls of the Assembly. Outside, even. Perhaps extending to the Council.

There had to be something to hide, Cirae realized with a numb feeling.

Despite herself, Cirae matched Irissa's smile, the chill rapidly melting away as her center warmed, brimming to a steady beat. "I know the law, Irissa," she said. "I don't have to tell you anything at all. And even if I _did_ know who sponsored me for that meeting, I still wouldn't tell you."

Irissa blinked in surprise. Another disappointment. Today had been a day of miscalculations, but the matriarch was not so easily dismayed.

"A pity. Then we have nothing more to discuss, apparently."

Cirae relished shoving the chair aside as she rapidly stood, ripping her stare away from that damnable woman. She tried not to consider the faction leader's glowing stare at her back as she stormed across the office hurriedly, making haste to reduce the amount of time to make an action she would undoubtedly regret.

Her footsteps rang like thunder in her ears.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Cirae blinked and sighed in appreciation as she walked into the open air the Presidium was able to afford. She had found a hidden nook down an adjacent path that overlooked one of the station's many ponds where a bench had been placed at the very end. Vivid green vines like tentacles spilled from the nearby terraces, dangling over the metal lips and filling her nose with a leafy scent.

Drained, Cirae bent over and held her head in her hands as she sat upon the bench, breathing deeply as she fought to control herself. It had been such a long time since she had been pushed to such an extent. Irissa's cutting threats had done their duty in unnerving her. For the longest time, she had envisioned herself in spearheading a route of integrity in her position, her ego being instrumental in having stirred up images of her becoming imbued with power and respect. But she had wanted to earn that the old-fashioned way: through her actions and becoming an example for prospective hopefuls to follow. How could she hope to achieve that when her career was now dangling by threads?

Even knowing that corruption was plaguing the highest levels of the government that she was a part of, she was a long way from holding any concrete proof in her hands. All she had to go on were implied musings. Idle chatter, not worth a damn in the minds of the unbiased.

"What do I do now?" she muttered into her hands, the quiet gurgling of the fountains providing a serene soundtrack in the background. "_Fuck_. What to do…"

She was so entranced as she stared off into space that she nearly missed the winking icon that suddenly begun glimmering wildly upon the back of her hand. Curious, she appraised her limb—it was her omni-tool going off. Someone was trying to contact her. The provided address was not one she recognized, but that did not stop her from picking up the call just in time.

"This is Representative Idetha," she said, trying not to sound too harried as she cleared the emotions from her throat.

"_I was wondering if your presence at the CCA would have attracted any notice_," an unfamiliar voice, one that sounded artificially deepened, resounded in her ear. "_Now I've obtained my answer. Eyes are on you from the wrong side, representative, but they've revealed their hand rather early. You'll find that they just made a sloppy mistake. You still have time to use that to your advantage._"

"What the…" Cirae stammered as she whirled back and forth as she sat upon the bench, trying to see if the talker on the other end had a good view upon her from the other end of the Presidum's lakes, but found no one in sight. "Who _are_ you?!"

"_Let's just say that I'm your secret admirer. Clearly you've put the gift that I gave you to use. Did you find the results illuminating?_"

Cirae stood from the bench, completely thrown. "_You_. You're my sponsor. You gave me the invite to the committee!"

"_Correct, Representative Idetha_," the voice said smoothly. "_I'm sure you've been eager to solve that mystery. I've been watching you for some time, now. Sending you that invitation anonymously may have been a theatrical display, but I needed to allay suspicions away from myself_."

"By putting _me_ in the crosshairs," Cirae said.

"_Yes, but at least now you're aware of the attention you've been drawing in your direction_."

"Are you saying I should thank you?"

"_That won't be necessary. We've a long way before any congratulations are to be doled out_."

Cirae halted in place after pacing for a bit, a hand at her ear, as if that would cup the sponsor's words all to herself. "All right, so who are you? You'd have to be a Citadel politician to be able to grant me access to a committee meeting. Are you another representative? A senator?"

The voice on the other end gave a soft laugh. "_You'd really like to know?_"

"I don't like being kept in the dark," Cirae said.

"_Then it's your lucky day. I have no intention of keeping things hidden from you, Representative Idetha. That's why I'm extending to you another invitation. A chance for us to finally meet, face-to-face._"

"Just tell me when and where," the asari began to pace again, scanning her eyes across the lake and through the various paths that snaked through the Presidium's parks.

"_Hold on for a second_," the voice intoned. "_If you do decide to go through with this, I cannot guarantee that your life would proceed as you would normally expect. This is an offering to become pointed in the direction of the answers you seek, but you could be put in danger from even speaking to me about this. You have suspicions about the system around you. I can help pull back part of the curtain, but I need to know that you will be all in on this._"

"You want to know if you can trust me."

"_I want to know if you won't settle for half-measures._"

The asari laid a hand against the railing as she looked down into the pool a few feet below. The glistening surface of the water frothed and was so clear that Cirae could see down to the bottom. She watched her own warped reflection stare back in determination, fighting to remain ramrod straight against the ripples that broke up the surface.

"What you're offering me is the truth?" she asked, any lingering traces of nervousness eroded away.

"_It is_."

Cirae gave the barest of smirks as she called back to what Irissa said. _Whatever you gain, you seek to immediately dispense without a thought towards whom it might hurt._

_But what if I find out you've been hurting others this entire time? Go fuck yourself, Irissa._

"If it hurts others—my peers—then they'll just have to take it. I don't give a shit about them," Cirae spoke almost defiantly as she strode towards the nearest elevator terminal. "Name a time and a place. I'll be there."

* * *

**A/N: Up next, we'll check back in on Jack and James, and perhaps Cirae will finally get closer to understanding the broader political atmosphere around her!**

**Playlist:**

**Nya's Theme/Sam Ruminates**  
**"Her Light Faded"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**The Dark Crystal: Age Of Resistance (Music from the Netflix Series)**

**Garrus' Theme/Gun Battery**  
**"Wreckage"**  
**Kazuma Jinnouchi**  
**Halo 4 (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Irissa's Threat/The Blacklist**  
**"X-15"**  
**Justin Hurwitz**  
**First Man (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	12. Chapter 12: House of Cards

"_Punch the reporter and win a prize!"_

_The Mass Effect Manual (2007)_

* * *

_The Citadel__  
CytoSystems Headquarters_

Twin spears of ivory struts and sunrise-tinted glass encroached from the Citadel's third wing, extending outward towards the gap in between the superstructure. Walkways, one on top of the other, connected the two buildings like struts on a ladder. The environment on the Citadel's arms proper was not at all like the Presidium, even in the glitzy areas of the financial sector—no artificial day cycles were present to dictate the inhabitants under its veil. The sun was just starting to peek over the curvature of the Earth, turning the day the color of steel.

James Vega glanced upward from where he was sitting to view the magnificent structure that was the CytoSystems building through the skylight of the lobby. Curved structural beams crisscrossed above his head like spiderwebs, tangling his line of sight of the heavens over him.

The chair he had chosen to occupy was firm but plush, the color of algae. The lobby itself was a monolithic area completely dominated by a motif of flattened and imposing stones; the walls were molded to resemble massive gray bricks that were stacked to reach at least three stories tall. The acoustics were wet—James could hear snippets of every conversation, even if they just so happened to be occurring more than a dozen meters from where he sat. It was a very spartan setting where patchy periods of quiet became maddening rings in his ears. James fidgeted in his seat, trying not to let his discomfort show.

Sitting across from him, legs crossed, Jack simply lifted an eyebrow as she appraised the marine. James caught her eye and the two shared an almost imperceptible nod of their heads. Both of their mouths twisted—they clearly wished to talk to the other but in a place like this, the propensity for echoes to linger notwithstanding, they were keen to not have their conversation be overheard by anyone.

It had been a period of two days since the two of them had departed from the Bureau of Corporations with their quickly devised game plan in tow. Questions about CytoSystems as well as its corporate structure had been bouncing around James' head in that time and he had made the sudden but emphatic decree that their next course of action was to speak to someone high up on the totem pole of the corporation's hierarchy. The very top, specifically. Madam Phoria'Gula.

Turns out such a proclamation had been made in haste because, as James quickly found out, a CEO's schedule is not all that amenable to sudden changes, especially those brought on by spontaneous notions like James'. Even as a war hero, his celebrity status could only get him so far, with the earliest available appointment with Phoria (for a mere half an hour block) was not available until at least two days since his and Jack's little information-gathering sojourn. Aside from barging his way into the headquarters in the hopes that such brash actions would grant him a face-to-face meeting, there was nothing either of them could do except wait and comply with the dictated appointment time. In those two days, James and Jack had briefly gone their separate ways, finding various activities to kill the time with: bar hopping, watching a few vids, sleeping in. But now that they were back together, James could feel his determined focus sinking back into place. He steeled himself, stiffening his chest to withstand the grueling blows of his heart.

Clacks of heels on stone increased in volume, heading in their direction. James lifted his head up. A conservatively-dressed human woman in a meticulously tailored dark blue suit was striding towards them. The receptionist that had processed their arrival to the building.

"Madam Phoria will see you two now," the woman said with an effervescent smile. She waved a hand over to the left, where a singular glass tube held a cylindrical lift. "The elevator will take you to her floor. Would you like an escort?"

"We'll manage," Jack answered before James could politely respond. Issuing an apologetic look towards the receptionist, the two walked inside the elevator, the clear walls encasing them in bounced light and a stuffy vacuum. There were no buttons or an interface—the lift detected their presence and automatically began the two-hundred story ascent to the top of the rightmost tower.

"I'll be honest," James leaned over as he looked down at the rapidly diminishing ground below, "I have no idea what to expect up there."

"I guess that means that you don't have prior experience talking to a CEO of a major corporation?" Jack asked, blood-red lips faintly curling upward.

"Are you saying that _you_ do?"

"I have experience in despising them."

James shook his head as he watched the level numbers slowly tick upward on the ceiling counter. They had gone past 100 at this point.

"We're not here to trade blows, Jack. All we're here for is to determine some of the specifics of Phoria's deal with the Alliance. See if we can find out some things about her co-CEO as well, perhaps her hidden shareholder."

"If she's cocky enough to admit such a thing."

"Won't know unless we try," James said.

Jack nodded in agreement and only now James seemed to realize that the two of them were probably a bit too underdressed for this occasion. James had donned a simple set of blue urban fatigues complete with heavy boots made for stomping—nothing objectionable if not a tad dull. Jack, on the other hand, naturally did not make any effort to conform to a business aesthetic. Her ripped pants and leather jacket made her look like she was cut straight out of a cyberpunk novel. The slashes of skin at her hairline, combined with her prominent tattoos, only accentuated that degree. James would have lightly chastised Jack for the slip in the dress code, but he knew that trying to get the woman to adopt a collective mindset would only invite a string of profanity-laden sentences levelled in his direction.

Besides, it would be hypocritical to comment when James saw himself as barely skirting the decorum anyway.

"Going to be interesting to see _why_ Phoria agreed to meet with us," James quietly commented. "You have to wonder, why would someone like her want to see us on a whim?"

Jack blew air from her mouth in a silent laugh. "You kidding? She's the CEO of a major corporation that just signed an exclusive deal with the Alliance, marine. Executives will line up to anyone who they think would be an asset to their bottom line. She probably thinks that we just fell into her lap."

"You speak as if you know her personally."

"Not that hard to have her figured," Jack shrugged.

The elevator began to decelerate. Rings of marbled stone and glimmering iron bars wrapped around the enclosure as the lift reached the topmost floor. James and Jack stepped out of the lift and into the office, finding that they had a panoramic view of the Citadel, with each and every one of the station's five arms sprawling towards the stars, twinkling with its own infinite splendor. They were able to see the entirety of Earth's horizon stretch out before them as well as the ribbons of light that snaked through the Citadel's arms like glowing veins.

A short hallway guided them to a conference room just on the other side of a translucent glass partition the color of sea ice. A dark hardwood table and several custom alloy chairs filled the expanse. A few abstract holograms lined the walls, glimmering esoteric and mindless shapes and colors that flashed in seemingly random patterns. The visual art introduced a kaleidoscopic effect upon the room, saturating it will all the hues of the spectrum. And through it all, the light from the sun shot in from the window just in front of them, silhouetting the figure that stood in front of the gigantic window—a slim figure, with their hands folded behind their back.

Phoria'Gula turned, the scarf-like tails of her _sehni_ slowly whipping around her body. Gray and crimson highways dueled across the landscape of the fabric covering. Her visor, bright lighting-bold white, shimmered the exact same mercury hue of a refracted quarian eye. Even though James had already seen the quarian in person before, he was still struck that the woman seemed to command quite the graceful atmosphere—each movement of her body glided through the air. Nothing was unplanned. Everything was calculated.

He could not help but feel uneasy around her. James tightened his jaw to ensure that no emotions could slip away.

The quarian began to walk around the beautifully crafted wood table, brushing her fingers on it to peel away a silky rubbing sound. Phoria then extended a hand to James as she approached before turning to Jack to repeat the gesture.

"James Vega, Jack," Phoria greeted as she shook each one of their hands in turn. James was struck at the richness of the quarian's tone. "Welcome to CytoSystems. I trust that all your needs were catered for down in the lobby?"

"Madam Phoria," James tilted his head, a minute bow. He remembered to add the 'Madam' for the right emphasis, despite the word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. "Your staff adequately saw to us. Jack and I were just marveling over how… impressive this whole facility was."

"Please sit," Phoria waved a hand to the chairs that rimmed the table. The guests hesitantly did so while the quarian pulled out a seat directly across from them. "This place was actually built for a prestigious accounting firm a long while back. They moved to a smaller location after the war decimated part of the Citadel and many of their staff were lost. Now, CytoSystems operates every one of the 310 stories in these towers. And we don't need to bother with any titles for right now. In here, you can call me Phoria."

_Good_, James thought, not at all enthused to the idea of addressing the woman by a fancy and meaningless salutation.

Phoria then realigned a stray bit of her _sehni_ that had moved out of place before she seemed to fiddle with a knob near the jawline of her helmet. "Please excuse me," she said to the two. "I probably should have done this before you two arrived, but I just left a very important call with a potential client and had very little time to settle in. This should not take a minute."

Before James or Jack could inquire as to what the quarian meant, Phoria surprised them both by raising her hands up to her face, using her thumbs to simultaneously depress the catches hidden on the underside of her helmet. There was a distinct hiss of gas—James instinctively lurched forward as he realized what was about to happen. He could not get a word out, remaining in a horrified silence as Phoria lifted her shining white visor from her face and set it upon the desk, empty with trails of compressed breathing mixture spiraling into the air.

The two humans froze as they could not help but stare at the unmasked quarian. They did not know to stay or flee outright to ensure Phoria's health. James knew nothing about this environment—was it sterile? Did Phoria immunize herself before she entertained them? There was still the very high danger of quarians dying horribly from allergic reactions as a result of breathing in unfiltered air. Their compromised immune systems could not take such stress.

But Phoria did not seem to be fazed at all. She inhaled deeply, lifting her entire body up a couple of inches as she savored the sweetness of the air upon her face, filling her lungs, knowing that it did not have to pass through several layers of filtration that gave it an otherwise artificial tang. She then opened her eyes, revealing the delicate seawater color of her eyes as she flicked her gaze across Jack and James.

James had never seen an unmasked quarian in person before, although he had seen pictures. Phoria looked to be middle-aged—tender lines of crows' feet tugged at her eyelids and her prominent cheekbones jutted against her skin. James was able to see the faint swipe of dark hair near the edge of the quarian's helmet, noting that Phoria cut a very striking and unconventionally attractive figure. As a boy, he had imagined the real reason why quarians hid their face was because their features were so terrifying—razor-sharp mandibles, curling and slimy tentacles, compound eyes—that no one could bear to look upon them for long. But here, presented with proof to the contrary, James wondered how he could have been so stupid as a child.

Phoria smiled. It was not a wide and ecstatic grin, but merely a simple and smug one. James now realized that the quarian was just fronting on them. She was putting on a show—to disarm them both right at the outset of this meeting. The careful placement of her features, the dramatic unveiling. It all ran contrary to regular quarian behavior. Being behind masks for most of their lives meant that quarians did not bother with trying to tamper down their facial expressions when conversing—it made for a welcome edge when engaged in intense discussions. The fact that Phoria was so willing to do away with that advantage made warning bells sound off in James' head. It meant that she was in complete control of her emotions.

Already she had the upper hand.

"You do not need to worry about me getting sick," Phoria said, understandably knowing what James' first question was going to entail. She tapped a spot upon her neck, where platinum bands wrapped around her bodysuit. "New advancements in medical implants. Two-year immuno-booster. Keeps my body at a constant dosage to keep my immune system healthier than ever. Promotes hormone growth to increase my white blood cell count and introduces pieces of common viral strains, not enough to make me ill, but to make my body effectively combat any contaminant that comes into my system. CytoSystems has been making them for the past year, you know."

"No kidding," Jack murmured, letting a hint of admiration slip into her tone.

"And you're confident that us being with you in the same room is not going to have any unintended side effects?" James asked.

The quarian made the tiniest gesture with her hands. "Maybe not, but I'm always eager to test my limits."

"You probably don't see this as playing fast and loose with your life, do you?"

"I'm sure you can understand, James. If you've lived to be my age, forced to wear an enviro-suit for the majority of your life with no exceptions, and along comes this opportunity to shed that skin, you'll find that every quarian would want to make up for the lost time."

That sounded like an acceptable answer to James. When he had been working with Tali aboard the _Normandy_, their conversations had naturally turned to her most obvious impediment towards living a normal life: her enviro-suit. He had learned enough talking with her to understand that many quarians shared a love-hate relationship with the suits. They were wonderful in that they kept them alive, but damn it, they did present an impediment to a lot of things most races took for granted.

Phoria's eyes now flicked over to Jack. "I noticed you two at the celebratory conference a few days ago. While we did not introduce ourselves then, I was grateful for your presence nonetheless. Many of my peers that I conversed with made enthusiastic comments on your attendance."

James nearly frowned at that. Clearly Phoria was more observant than he had figured. During the entirety of the conference, he had seen her swarmed by so many people all the time that he had figured her attention had been directed elsewhere, certainly not keeping him or Jack underneath a watchful gaze.

"Well, we apologize for not approaching you then, regardless," Jack answered in a more conciliatory tone than James had ever heard from the woman before. "You seemed to have been increasingly occupied and it had been a while since I had seen this man here," she nudged James' arm with an elbow. "We just wanted to catch up with each other."

The quarian spread her hands as a graceful and motherly smile came to her, producing a calming effect around the table. "Rapport between comrades, I understand. That is a bond that is nothing less than sacrosanct, knowing the history of you and the rest of your crew. Rest assured, I take no offense to you choosing each other over me." She then traced a slow pattern on the table in front of her as she considered her next words. "But now I'm left rather puzzled. I'm wondering what it is that drew you here today, to me. I don't think that you're here to conduct a friendly and casual chat. As much as I'd be flattered, people in my position are rarely afforded such opportunities. We take them as a luxury, you know."

All right, it was game time. James knew that he could not dance around the subject for very long, but neither could he apply a blunt approach like sending a sledgehammer upon a simple nail.

"To be honest," he started, "Jack and I were only introduced to this new program between the Alliance and CytoSystems just a few days ago. We were never in the loop as far as the discussions between you and my superiors went."

Phoria nodded sagely. "That usually tends to be the case for deals like this. Whether for security purposes or to keep discussion chains short, it seems."

"But it had Jack and I interested in the whole affair," James gestured, trying not to have the narrative of his lie derail within his head, "to the point where we decided to do a little fact-finding on CytoSystems' history."

"Did you now?" Phoria raised an eyebrow, which struck James as especially odd because there would be no reason for a quarian to adapt that sort of body language into their vernacular. She had _practiced_ this move, no doubt about it.

Jack now chose this moment to step in. "Yes, and it was impressive to us at how rapidly we saw how you've manage to diversify the company's portfolio. If I recall, you guys are the industry leaders in aerospace systems, military sensors, civil defense, and remote-control vehicles. You've got yourself a pretty fuckin' good nest egg there, Phoria."

The quarian did not seem perturbed by the profanity. In fact, she seemed encouraged from the veiled praise. "Yes, well, I've tried to position CytoSystems to be more innovative and peerless in its current market. It's a rather cutthroat business in this industry—diversification is key to a company's survival here."

"Was that strategy in place before or after you became CEO?" James asked.

"The idea was in place but it was only enacted when I was chosen to serve as the chief executive officer for the company."

"I see," James said, trying to think back to the little bits of Phoria's history that he had scraped together back at the Bureau of Corporations. He decided to make his first real probe. "How _did_ it come down to you being elected as CEO, exactly? I didn't have time to look that information up before coming here."

Phoria shook her head. "I was never elected actually. To be honest, I never officially held a position at CytoSystems before becoming CEO, even though I had been working for them for almost my whole life."

Now James and Jack had to look at each other in surprise. This sort of admission was astonishing, to say the least. Equally confusing was the fact that Phoria had volunteered it without any effortful prying on their end.

"I don't understand," Jack squinted her eyes apprehensively. "Not to be rude or anything, but why would you be picked to lead a company if you never had an official position in the company before?"

The quarian watched them both with interest, a knowing glint burning in the corner of her eyes. "I was sold into indentured servitude as a young child on Illium," she recounted without a hint of emotion. "The woman who bought me turned out to be the exact same one who would go on to found CytoSystems. For thirty years, I was her servant, her assistant, and eventually her friend."

"And her _slave_," James added with more anger in his voice that had inhabited the quarian's.

"In no way was I treated as such," Phoria said with a slightly disappointed look. "My master was kind and gentle. She never abused me and treated me as if I had merit. I stayed at her side for the rest of her life and had an ear in all of her dealings when she ran the company. She trusted no one other than myself—I was the only person she felt she could count on. And when she was in her final days, she sent for me from the hospital, where she presented me with the most wonderful news. She had purchased my freedom and was even offering me to run CytoSystems as its CEO. To her, it made complete sense. I knew the complete ins and outs of the company. I was intimately familiar with its operations and that of its subsidiaries. There was no one else who had that kind of knowledge. With such an offer on the table, there was no way I could refuse. I was so grateful to the woman who had given me a fulfilled life and had worked to secure my future. I took the position… mainly to honor her and to respect the trust that she had placed in me."

Again James felt a sinking sensation start to inhabit his chest. Phoria's story was meant to be a tearjerker, sure. But he was quite sure that not a word out of the quarian's mouth had been a lie. It certainly explained why he had been unable to find anything on her prior to her appointment as CEO to CytoSystems—if she had been an indentured servant, there was no need to process any paperwork. One dead end.

But… there was one thing that Phoria had left out that James had noticed. One thing whose omission derived a healthy amount of suspicion.

The second CEO. Phoria's counterpart.

The majority shareholder of CytoSystems.

"A story like that is advantageous for someone in your position," Jack said, faking a tone of admiration. "An underdog tale. It garners a lot of sympathy."

Phoria tilted her head. "I try not to tell it too often. It does give others understanding but if it becomes a habit then people will think I'm being disingenuous. I've never shared that particular story in public—only in face-to-face meetings like this one."

"Explains why I couldn't find it bouncing around the ether," James tapped his fingers upon the armrests of his chair.

"I'd be surprised if you did find something on the extranet that alluded to it."

"And I suppose that same secrecy would extend to your partner, I take it?"

Phoria froze as her eyes shifted back and forth abruptly. The first vivid reaction James had managed to elicit today. _Good_.

"What did you say?" she uttered, the trace of a velvety rasp intruding into her voice.

"Your partner," James repeated, trying to keep himself from breaking out into a giddy smile. "CytoSystems' co-CEO. I saw the re-incorporation documents. Two names were on the main form. Yours and someone else's."

"Their name was blacked out," Jack added.

Despite her facial expression having momentarily cracked, the fissures that lined the quarian's face split no further before smoothing into eroded valleys. She had recovered quickly enough that no more tells would tumble past the façade she had built up, demonstrating the immense control she had accumulated over her lifespan.

The quarian then gave a glittering smile that sparkled like starlight. "Tell me something first. Why do you think the name on the form was blacked out to begin with?"

Jack made a callous shrug. "A business spat? An embarrassing association? Among other things."

"'_Among other things_,'" Phoria clucked. "A blanket term for a wealth of reasons I could list for you."

"Might as well start," Jack countered. "We've got time."

"I don't think you do. I could provide a full catalog of explanations for the phenomenon you believe you've uncovered—but that would undoubtedly run over the full extent of time I've allotted to you. Whereas you two seem to have your schedules open, I, on the other hand, have to contend with the sort of duties that come with this position."

The quarian rose and, in a smooth fluid motion, reset her mask back onto her helmet, producing a sequence of bone-tingling clicks as the clasps slid into place. She began to circuit around the table, but not before James rose to partially block her path, using his tall stature to his advantage.

"I also saw how CytoSystems' shares were partitioned," he whispered to Phoria. "It was impossible for me to miss that the singular owner with a majority share also had their identity blocked. I've never been trustful of coincidences, Phoria. I'm especially curious to see why such a deal with the Alliance has proceeded in public while too much of the underlying plot has been kept private."

Phoria's hands folded together as she kept ramrod straight, not as a defensive gesture, but to provide herself with purchase in her grip. "I'm just as curious as to why you would not have gone to the Alliance for your answers. Certainly they would be your first source for our new relationship."

"You said it yourself. They have a penchant for keeping the details out of our reach if we're not considered important. All I want is to be told that nothing here is being done in bad faith, Phoria. For your sake and for mine."

"There's nothing to tell," Phoria said, her voice now trickling from the upper registers. Her hands minutely shook, something that the marine did take notice of but chose not to speak up. "And even if there was, I don't have to say anything to you."

"So there really _is_ a co-CEO," James murmured, his face briefly illuminated by the scar of reflected sunlight from a passing skycar.

The quarian took a step forward. The length of a grain of sand. The width of an entire gulf. "This is not something that you need to get involved in, captain," she said, a harried uncertainty already seeping into her stance, infecting her. Her shoulder slumped and her eyes wavered. Gone was the supremely confident woman that had sat before James at the head of the table. Now she seemed to be shrinking before his very eyes, caught in a whirlwind that refused to taper away.

"Phoria," he said gently, Jack hanging over his shoulder, "if there is someone behind the scenes pulling the strings, you realize that this impacts us all? Both Alliance and CytoSystems. Did you come up with the idea for this deal with the Alliance? Or were you _told_ to enact it?"

For a moment, James hoped that the quarian would have finally shaken off the phony exterior that had sufficed as a sturdy frontage painted to hide the cracks in the foundation. But instead, Phoria's eyes gave a slow and purposeful blink—a reset back to her supposed form. Her shoulders relaxed and her eyes behind the pale screen lidded upwards.

A grin.

A taunt.

Without a word, Phoria slid her way past the cliff that was James Vega and headed over to the glass doors smeared with frost. She turned to face her visitors as the doors parted to reveal the elevator at the end of the tiny corridor, shadows from the holographic art turning every protuberance into a mountain as they curved and snarled.

"You have ten seconds to demonstrate your ability to leave the premises," she announced, iron rebar now propping her words up. "After that, security will throw you out. I'd suggest you decide quickly."

From behind the thin glass snowdrifts, two armed contractors stepped forward, completely encased in armor the color of a jagged sandstorm. Their fingers rested upon the triggers of their assault rifles, expressions carefully hidden underneath a veil of obsidian glass.

James and Jack both wilted and sighed at the same time, unused to feeling so powerless deep into enemy territory.

* * *

"Well, that could have gone better," James grumbled as he descended the shallow steps that propped up the massive skyscraper that towered out of sight.

With the shining spears of the CytoSystems' towers rising behind them like a two-pronged sword, the structure appeared to carve a road up towards the depths of space, the lights from the individual floors eventually blurring into the congealed mass of stars so bright they seemed to blot out the dark spaces in between. From where they had been, they probably now appeared like tiny gnats that had lit down upon a carcass, insignificant to the onrushing train that was the technological might of progress.

"Our suspicions weren't exactly debunked," Jack said, locked in step alongside the man.

"They weren't exactly confirmed, either. We're still stuck in the same place that we were in the beginning. All we have are hunches. And hunches are not proof."

Jack gave a grunt as she tightened her jacket around her collar, as if suddenly afflicted by a rapid chill. "She's hiding something."

"Oh, you think?" James raised an eyebrow. "We know that she's just a puppet doing the bidding of someone lurking in the shadows. What we don't know is who that person is and what their grand strategy might be."

"Think we might have been able to pry something out of her?"

"Not that I could see," James admitted. "Though I wonder if Shepard in his heyday could have been able to charm the information out of Phoria. He always did have a way with words. Now, as I understand, he's keeping everything relatively low-key. And considering all that's gone on in his life, who can blame him?"

They had reached the edge of the boundary that marked the CytoSystems block where a series of pedestrian crossings had been erected. The two took a bridge that spanned a skycar lane down below, a throbbing river of noise and melted light that screamed by a breakneck speeds just several meters below their feet. Right at the median of the bridge, James felt the back of his hand vibrate. He rotated his wrist to find that his notification light was rapidly strobing. Someone was giving him a call.

"It's Admiral Huston," he said, his face wilting and his stomach dropping out at the same time. No way that the timing of this call was a fluke. It had to be related to the conversation that he had just departed. It just had to be.

Jack eyed her friend worryingly. "You're sure that he knows that we talked with Phoria?"

"There's no other reason. He would never call like this out of the blue."

"Are you going to answer? Might as well get it over with."

He would have rather disregarded the call entirely, to let Huston stew in a sea of his own indigence. But James knew that he would just be forestalling even more dire consequences that would be building up behind a dam of his own creation. As much as he was dreading the outcome, he knew Jack was right.

"Captain Vega," he announced as he switched the call to voice only, hoping that the admiral would not detect the tremble of nerves inherent in his throat.

"_Captain_," Huston's teeth seemed to gnash at James' ear, "_I just got word from Madam Phoria that you had barged into her office and confronted her to divulge classified information on the Alliance's newly christened partnership. It would be an outlandish claim to begin with, but I know that you have a tendency to not let things go easily. This is your one chance to explain yourself_."

James swallowed. Phoria had been quick to rat them out, apparently. Did she intend for them to be put away as a result of their discussion so that they would not raise any more questions in the future? No matter, he could only afford to concentrate on one thing at the moment. Huston's rage was deathly apparent, even through the comm-link.

"Admiral," he began, "what Madam Phoria said is true. I initiated an appointment with her in the hopes that I would attain more information about this deal concerning her company and the Alliance. I found a few inconsistencies in some of the paperwork and I was hoping that she could explain them to—"

"_That is neither here nor there, captain_," Huston interrupted over the line. "_Your job is not to double-check the work that Alliance Intel has spent the last several months going over. Your 'inconsistencies' are nothing but figments of your imagination. These questions could have been answered if you had submitted these inquiries through the proper Alliance channels, as is policy."_

"Respectfully, sir, I—"

"—_I don't want to hear excuses from you, captain. You cannot hope to explain yourself out of this. You are to cease whatever you are doing, return to Earth, and stand trial for a court-martial_."

Now the bottom fell out. James had to grip the railing as his world tilted in vibrant streaks. A thin headache cropped up under his lobe. He felt faint.

"Please, admiral," he despised begging but Huston's sentencing had been such a blow that he had lost control of his pride instantly, "I was only—"

"_We're done here, captain_," Huston stated flatly, no remorse attached to any of his words. "_You are suspended from your duties. Return to Berlin at your own expense to receive your sentencing. We'll be expecting you_."

Without any input from James, the call disconnected, leaving the muted throb of the Citadel cityscape to fill the void. He lost sight of the worried look that Jack was giving him, as he instead lifted his head to that black horizon, trying to find that blurred boundary that marked the gulf between metal and nothingness, where filament became gas, where curls of heat turned to jagged cold.

And all the while, he refocused his view, desperately attempting to seek out the one answer that would finally open his eyes, to deliver the punchline that was this big galactic joke, because it seemed like everyone else had heard it all before while he had been living in the shelter of a naked stone's shadow.

* * *

_Menhir__  
Cargo Bay_

Roahn had figured a long time ago that her upbringing was plagued with the quirks that naturally rubbed off from being raised by a human. From her taste in music and movies, down to the species-specific jargon she had adopted, it was clearly engrained in her mind that she truly was a child of two worlds. She had never felt ostracized because of that fact, though. It was a common occurrence in this day and age for children to be raised by two different species—if anything Roahn saw that as a mature outlook as a whole.

Having Shepard as a single parent for a good portion of her childhood gave rise to her being in close proximity to his alien routines. Over time, she had unconsciously adopted and adapted them for her use as doing so was a surefire way to get her to feel closer to her father. There was harmony from the forced semblances she forged, and Shepard, bless him, had managed to take notice. The two fostered their kinship this way, engaged in such shared endeavors over their fondness for sharpshooting, planetary exploration, and intense ideological discourse.

Another activity that her father had influenced onto her, that was certainly _not_ a quarian pastime, was her propensity to exercise during her down time.

Working out was a foreign concept to quarians. It was not necessarily something that her race required in order to stay healthy. Quarians typically had high metabolisms, so they tended to burn calories very quickly, and the medical implants they had been outfitted with as children deliberately moderated the level of muscle tone through the injection of hormones, keeping a body at a set state of fitness for the rest of their lives. As a previous spacefaring race, the hormones were at least necessary to promote a healthy population—living an entire lifetime in artificial gravity is unhealthy on the body and hastens atrophy unless certain steps were taken—courtesy of the implants—to forestall such decay.

But that was no longer an issue anymore. Children who had been born on Rannoch never received the hormone boosters due to the optimistic hope that they would be spending the majority of their lives planet-locked. This also did present a new issue for the growing generation as they would have to find ways to naturally regulate their body's systems without relying on the artificial application of chemicals to perform the intruding equalization.

Roahn had been introduced to the concept of exercising as a young girl. Her father had his own workout routine that he used to stay in shape back at their house. The man was so rigid in conforming to his established routines that these daily customs held an inherent fascination to her. She was intrigued at the possibilities that working out entailed—after all, this right here was a way to further better her body through the act of repetition. It was like someone had unveiled the cheat code to unlock the full potential of her strength inside her.

All she had to do was work for it. Seemed simple enough.

Oh, but it had been tough, those first few months. Roahn could recall herself sweating up a storm as she pounded the concrete, pushing her thin teenage body up while her arms quaked in their sockets while supporting her weight. She could walk around her house without a helmet at that point—sweat would just be pouring down her face in thick estuaries. Her throat would become clogged with her mucus, turning her breathing into a sickly rasp. Her stomach would tie itself up in knots and her lungs felt like they would burst her rib cage out from her chest.

But she had kept at it. As the weeks went by Roahn slowly but surely increased the amount of weight on all the machines, marveling at the marbled muscle that had corded around her light bones. Very soon, she could lift nearly double her body weight, she could run ten miles at a rapid pace, and she could sink into the customary high that soaked her brain as her adrenaline spiked, dulling the pain and lifting her away into a suspended plane, suddenly spectral, counting down the numbers left in her sets.

Time blurred on by for her in those moments. One blink could mean an entire hour.

A fair trade, in her opinion.

After taking a nap in her room for a few hours, today was actually the first time Roahn was availing herself to the Menhir's collection of fitness equipment. Various machines, treadmills, free weights; a whole smorgasbord of options had been presented to the crew for their use, shoved into the corner of the cargo bay, though everyone on board was probably still getting used to their posting that they were not at all thinking of modifying their regimes to fit in calisthenics. That just meant that Roahn had the place all to herself.

Good. She concentrated better when she was alone, anyway.

The bay was soon subject to the creaks and clanks the equipment naturally produced from its usage. The steadied rasps from Roahn also joined in as a simmering accompaniment. Most of the equipment was analog, powered only by the amount of force the user exerted onto it. She traversed each machine in turn in a lopsided circuit, dividing up her time to allocate her attention equally to each of the targeted muscle groups.

Blank eyes stared outward as Roahn's right arm curled, operating a grip with a block of weights attached on the other end. Bands of fire seemed to envelop her bicep, a cutting sensation that was familiar and strangely welcome. She kept at this for roughly fifteen minutes before she assaulted a stand that carried aloft a set of bars meant to be pulled downward—a test for the shoulders. She conquered that too in good time. Calf curls. Triceps lifts. Push-ups. Deadlifts. Even thirty minutes on the treadmill. Roahn was now jogging in place without making a pained noise, making sure to time her breaths to the tempo of her stride. Her lungs felt full, close to bursting, but it was an agony she could withstand as there had been pain leagues greater that had befallen her prior. There was a limit she knew she could withstand.

She lost herself to the routine, her mind a furious snowdrift. Her thoughts selfishly turned inward, only focused on her own betterment. She could forget most of her ailments here—her habits for calisthenics required a fair bit of concentration and any other scraps of coherent thoughts were burned away by the sparks of pain that flared in the background, glowing in her mind like stoked coals. There was no need to think of past grudges, petty conflicts, or…

Roahn winced as a faint tickle cut through the barricade as she jogged, an electric jolt at the stump of her arm.

Everything except that, it seemed.

Powering down the treadmill with her good hand, Roahn stepped off and made a few laps of the cargo bay, breathing heavily while clutching at the base of her prosthesis. The phantom pain was no longer announcing itself with glee, but its presence still left a faint impression. It had actually been pulsating off in the deep fog of her head ever since she had started working out—Roahn had been confident enough that she could ignore it. Evidentially that was not the case or her pain had suddenly become sentient, not wanting Roahn to leave without a reminder of its existence.

"Damn you," she whispered to the shining fingers, which were now shaking from adrenaline and her growing animosity. "Leave me be."

A canteen had been positioned upon one of the nearby aluminum benches near the personnel lockers. Roahn spied it and, driven by a burst of spontaneity, headed over and plucked it up from where it had been sitting. She regarded the object in her metallic hand for a moment before she furrowed her brow and sent the signal for her fingers to _clench_.

They obeyed. The hardy material of the canteen crumpled instantly with an abbreviated shriek, the forest paint sloughing off in cracks.

Roahn laughed, an involuntary reaction. She released her fingers and the ruined canister clattered loudly to the floor, the indentations of Roahn's prosthetic fingers firmly embedded into the metal.

But still, the hurt remained. It continued on, embedding itself in joints that no longer existed. It lived as an infectious presence, solely focused on tormenting her.

Roahn's hand continued shaking. She closed her eyes. She found solace in digging through the thick ink that obscured her wondrous memories. She could find her own untarnished love locked away there.

She could see herself watching the sunsets on Rannoch with her father. She could see herself sifting through the dust amongst the wreckage of the SR-1. She could see herself laughing and giggling as Garrus Vakarian lifted her child-like body into the air. She could see herself nestled against the side of her mother, eyes drooping while her melodious voice sang a lullaby—

_BANG_

Panting, Roahn's eyes opened again. She was now aware that her entire face was plastered with a cold sweat. Now hunched over, she looked down, still breathing heavily. To her curiosity, her prosthesis, now molded into a fist, had smashed directly onto the aluminum bench, creating a large indentation several inches deep. She had barely felt the impact, she noted. With some slight jerkiness, Roahn wrenched her arm free, still staring at the jagged hole she had now created into the bench, which was ruined, for all intents and purposes.

But the pain had finally fled.

Rubbing at her unscratched and hardened knuckles, Roahn finally let herself be torn away from this place, taking herself over to the lift to avail herself to her own utilities. A snarl of jumbled thoughts had descended upon her and that growing anger was only building.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later saw Roahn standing in the midst of a scalding spray, blinded by a stream of piping hot water as it tumbled down from the vent just inches above her head. Her eyes had seemed to be permanently locked shut and her mouth was half open as she stood in the same place to let the water run over her head.

The liquid trickled down her skin and tumbled freely from her rightmost fingers. On her left side, the water coalesced together to form fat pregnant drops that slathered off of the terminus that was Roahn's stump.

Roahn had left her prosthesis behind back on her bed, having been uncoupled before she stepped into the shower. The apparatus itself was fine with getting wet, but Roahn preferred to stand in the shower as complete as she could be, not wanting to feel that she was bringing in anything from the outside. A fair mindset, considering the obvious.

The shower had been installed into the executive officer's cabin a long time before Roahn would become the place's new permanent resident. If the room _had_ been specifically catered to her needs, the shower probably would not have made it past the planning stage of the blueprints for the _Menhir_. For generations, the enviro-suits of quarians had been so restrictive that they had made the act of showering a complete nuisance—add in the fact that showers required removal of the suits which would then only invite an open-air infection, and the quarians would have a natural recipe for disaster on their hands. That was why the enviro-suits had cleaning programs installed into their embedded software to promote hygiene and to keep its wearer healthy without requiring them to venture outside it at all.

That was not what Roahn wanted for herself. Her home on Rannoch had been so sterile that she had been graced with the ability to use the showers at her leisure there (not counting the fact that the showers were only installed because of her father's preference for them). The sensation of being doused with water so warm it reddened her skin and steam so thick she could drown in it was a feeling so intoxicating that it had a paralytic effect on her. The shower had always been a treat for her growing up—it was thirty minutes of exquisite stimulation upon her body that gave her such a euphoric high from the water running across sensitive skin—a complete nervous system overload. It was an addictive feeling and a shower was certainly not something she took for granted.

Fortunately for her, Roahn's cabin had the shower installed after all and, even better, her room came preinstalled with precise climate controls, allowing her to make the entire breadth of the place sterile and healthy. In other words, she could promote the sort of environment that she needed in this instance.

Besides, after a workout, a shower was just the thing she needed to clear her head to the point where she could have it totally wiped.

Lukewarm fluid trickled between her toes, softly draining below the metal grate. Her wet hair plastered to the back of her neck, Roahn slowly rotated in place, making unintelligible murmurs throughout. She finally stopped, now facing the wall, and slowly leaned her head against it, propping up her body. Now the water frothed at her back, stinging and splashing.

"If only…" she whispered, her words lost to the clapping of the liquid against her skin. "If only…"

Soothed by the massaging sensations, Roahn slipped into a semi-trance, her head still pressed against the wall, keeping her upright.

_She lifted up a hand. The left one. The low light glistened off of the back of her knuckles. Glitters of sweat perched delicately along her arm. She brought it back down, her palm finding a face. In this illumination, the two skin hues looked remarkably similar. The face gave a moan and darted out a tongue, finding the thumb. Roahn grinned as she slipped the digit closer to Skye's mouth, throat still raw, chest still heaving, as she held the human close to her body._

_The two soon brought themselves together in a passionate kiss. Both of their hands slid upon the other, finding slick warm post-coital flesh. They held no modest preconceptions at this moment. All of that had been done away with over time, as the novelty had waned in the wake of their desire. Currently, their thoughts turned to companionship, and lingering remnants pertaining to carnal pleasure._

_The two woman, quarian and human, cuddled naked upon the singular cot, the sheets crumpled beneath their bodies. The cot itself took up a third of the cramped quarters—Defender Basic training was modeled to replicate life on a warship as realistically as possible. The only other furnishings that took up the limited space was a tiny desk and a tall dresser, both made out of a flimsy metal material. Roahn's enviro-suit lay in a dissolved heap at the foot of the bed. Skye's clothes similarly mingled._

_The Defender cadets kissed and breathed. Their eyes found the other, two distinct shades of oyster green. They gently caressed the other's faces, lips parted, breaths heavy._

_Skye gave a tender smile as she began to run her fingers through Roahn's charcoal-black hair, parting the tousled strands with slow strokes. "I had a feeling you'd be a natural," she said._

"_Oh yeah?" Roahn inquired as she nestled her head in the crook of the human's neck, enjoying the attention. "What gave it away?"_

"_Don't know, really. Just a feeling."_

_The human's hand returned to Roahn's cheek, running her thumb in wide fans along the unblemished and pale surface._

_Roahn cracked an eye open, trying to catch a peek at her lover. "I like it when you do that."_

"_What, touch your face?"_

"_Yeah, it feels nice."_

"_Hell, Ro, I would have done it a whole lot sooner if you had told me then."_

"_I had other things on my mind."_

_Skye gave a dry snort. "Such as?"_

_The quarian gave her head a half-hearted jerk—a shrug—while keeping her body close. "You, for instance."_

_The touches continued. "You're sweet," Skye said. "Not to mention pretty."_

_Roahn blushed. "You're just saying that because you want to sleep with me again," she rasped while keeping her mouth tilted in a devilish grin, eyes slit into knowing lines._

_Skye reached down to cup Roahn's chin so that both were now staring at the other. "I'm fuckin' serious," she emphasized. "Don't try to pull a self-deprecating act on me now, Roahn. When I'm telling you that you're completely fuckin' gorgeous, then it would be in your best interest to agree with me." She paused a beat before kissing her forehead, keeping her lips solidly pressed to the quarian's shivering head for a complete second. "But I also do want to sleep with you again."_

"_Hah!" Roahn's grin flashed widely as her arms tightened around Skye. "Why am I not surprised?"_

_The two resumed their rekindled kissing, their heads now mashing together as they began to breathe through their noses in tandem. One of Skye's hands slowly came down to Roahn's chest, cupping a breast and causing a significant shudder to surge through the quarian, who had to stop for a moment as she sucked in a lip from the sensation._

"_You monster," Roahn weakly uttered as her eyes fluttered open. "I… I don't have anything left."_

_Skye laughed and arced an eyebrow. "Maybe I just enjoy tormenting you?"_

"_I can play that game too, you know." Roahn then leaned forward and poked her tongue out, tracing a wet line from the nape of Skye's neck up to her temple. Skye's skin was boiling hot there, the blood surging in agonized pumps. Roahn felt nails at her back as Skye groaned, pulling her ever closer. She continued upwards until she reached Skye's ear—she then nibbled at her earlobe, fluttering it back and forth with her tongue. This only seemed to electrify the human and her back arched, her own willpower slowly undulating like falling rope._

"_Oh, you bitch," Skye moaned._

"_This is the price you pay," Roahn murmured lowly at Skye's ear, her lips nearly brushing it._

_The human was quiet for a few more moments as Roahn suckled at the lobe. "Then… I guess I have nothing to regret."_

_Without warning, Skye grabbed at Roahn's hips and flipped her so that the human was on top. In a tumbled heap, the women began laughing hysterically, the sudden aggressiveness delighting them both. This also quieted as their lips mingled once again, seeking to return to known pleasures. The two tossed and turned upon the bed for a minute, arms around the other, faces locked together._

_And then an alarm on the nightdesk began to ring._

_The kiss was broken. "Oh, shit," Skye said, her face paling as she looked at the comm disk and the ID displayed on the interface._

"_What?" Roahn asked, still underneath Skye._

"_It's that asshole from Gamma Company. Byers. He's been after me for my post-mission report for a week."_

"…_And now he's come calling," Roahn surmised. "Literally."_

"_Well, he can't see you in here with me!" Skye grabbed at Roahn's shoulders, hoisting her up. "You have to hide until the call ends!"_

_Roahn went along with the flow, her brain still running slowly. "Hide? Hide where?" She looked around the room, finding there to be a pathetically low supply of nooks and crannies for her to reside._

_Skye leapt up. "The closet!" she indicated, opening up the doors and parting the racks of jumpsuits to etch out a small place for Roahn to scurry._

"_The closet?!" Roahn sat up only to be pulled to her feet by Skye. "You have got to be—"_

"_No time to argue!" Skye hissed as she shoved the quarian into the locker before shutting the door behind her. Roahn's protests were now muffled through the thin metal of the doors. The human then hurried over back to her bed, threw a towel around her body to preserve some modesty and hit the intercom button._

_Roahn kept an ear pressed at the door, an arm flap of one of Skye's combat under-suits slapping at her forehead. The conversation on the other side was short and fairly cordial. Skye was keeping up a faux tone of cheeriness while the man on the other end, Byers, had a more formal tone that hinted at a light reprimanding for the human's tardiness in submitting her paperwork._

_She had only been stuffed inside the closet for nearly a minute, but Roahn's limbs were already starting to cramp up. Desperate to flex her limbs, she gently pushed against the door, allowing a splinter of cold air to gush inside, as her emerald eye caught the last snippets between the two conversationalists._

"…_and I don't want to have to chase you down like this next time, Lorne," the disembodied and hexagonally patterned head of Byers was saying._

"_You won't," Skye said, though Roahn could see that, out of Byers' view, she was extending her middle finger—a human slight. "I'll be on top of it from now on."_

"_I hope that turns out to be the case. And… could you at least put on some clothes for the next time?"_

_Before Skye could comment, Byers cut the call and the particles of light that made up his image filtered down to the projector pad like grains of sand._

_The human stuck her tongue out at the void her counterpart had occupied just as Roahn was creeping back out, still naked. "Pervert."_

"_You were only wearing a sheet," Roahn reminded her as she slipped back into bed, a smile etched on her face._

"_He's a kiss-ass," Skye murmured as she kissed the quarian's forehead. "Only trying to find some way to put a feather in his superior's cap—remember he's already snitched on two people in Basic for smuggling in liquor. Got both of them kicked out. He probably thinks he can find some dirt on me. Heh, 'Blabbering Byers' won't find a way to get me under his thumb. I've got that prick's number."_

_Roahn closed her eyes from the attention Skye was plying her with before she cracked them back open in worry. "Even though… relationships between cadets are technically against Defender rules? If they know about us, we'll soon be in front of the advisory board like everyone else that's been snitched out."_

_Skye's fingers tickled Roahn's side, eliciting joyful yelps from the quarian. "Ah, he'll never find that out. Byers may be crafty, but he's as dull as dishwater when it comes to this. Besides, everyone knows that the 'no personal relationships' rule is a barbaric decree, anyway."_

"_Still doesn't make what we're doing allowable."_

"_Then I look forward to you recounting to me the last instance of someone getting kicked out of the Defenders for having sex with a fellow cadet," Skye teased as she tapped Roahn's nose, who lightly flinched with each 'blow.' "They'll never find out from me. Never, Ro."_

"_You sound supremely confident in your abilities to keep this on the down-low," Roahn said, now turned on her side, staring serenely at the human._

"_Oh? No doubts about your own ability to keep a secret?"_

_Roahn reached down and plucked her visor up from the foot of the bed, the polished surface glowing a color of an undersea floor. She rotated the faceplate in Skye's direction to make a point. "I've been told I have a good poker face."_

_Skye shrugged. "Then why bother worrying about it? You won't crack. I won't crack. We have each other, don't we? We're the Valkyries, after all. There will always be a time for us to ride together."_

_Now the human's hand crept from Roahn's nose, traversing a path down her throat, across her chest and belly, and finally at a junction hidden behind blankets and the quarian's thigh. Roahn breathed out as she felt a surging feeling start to well in her stomach, her abdomen already lining with sweat as Skye threw the sheets off the two of them, now rolling on top of the quarian. Skye's tongue snaked into Roahn's willing mouth and the two tumbled together in the distant aloneness, only needing the company of the other._

_Roahn's free hand—her other grabbing at Skye's back—gripped the bedsheets tightly in a trembling fist while her deep breaths convalesced into long groans._

The rain of the shower pouring down, Roahn finally took a breath.

She had slid all the way down to the floor, her back pressed to the wall, knees drawn to her chest, as she had allowed the memory to temporarily overwhelm her. Tender and warm droplets continued to spatter upon her head. Her drenched hair dangled over her face in clumps. The stump of her left arm glistened as the water drizzled from the end. Roahn softly beat her head against the wall, attempting to rid herself of these distractive thoughts. Words swam in jumbled sentences amongst the filaments in her mind. Lips mouthed indistinguishable sounds that became mere wind in the face of the storm.

With a collected determination, her three remaining fingers tapped a solid beat upon her knee. All she knew is that, sooner or later, she was going to have to decide whether her situation with Skye was going to become an issue or not.

But how to fully rectify it, was a plan she did not have a design for yet.

* * *

Roahn eventually managed to extricate herself from the shower after a few more minutes—a mercy for the _Menhir's_ water sterilization units after so much use. The shower had an air-dry feature that spat out four columns of nearly scalding air onto the victim, to which Roahn availed herself to (another delightful feeling to her senses). Buffeted in all directions, her hair splaying and curling, it felt like she had just stepped in front of a jet engine. She finally emerged, bone-dry with tingling skin, a somewhat satisfied smirk refusing to fade away.

Thankfully, enviro-suits were not all that difficult to put on one-handed. The flexible material had an electrical mesh layer embedded inside that allowed the suit to become baggy and lose its shape for easy removal. Activating the mesh would adhere the suit to the wearer's form again, rendering it snug around their body. It only took Roahn a few minutes longer than usual with one arm to get inside the suit, and once she had it fitted, she was able to reattach her prosthesis to her stump, returning her to full functionality.

It took her a full ten minutes to reapply her more decorative trappings: her boots, belts, helmet, and her mother's _sehni_. The flowing fabric, once it was its turn to be added, Roahn held to the light, picturing it adorning her mother at one point. The stories it could share about Tali, if only it had the ability to talk. With a smile, she firmly fastened it atop her head, the movements of her fingers mirroring the rampant eddies imprinted upon the scuffed surface.

The final piece she paused before adding it to her appearance. Her visor, empty and hollow, sat upon her cot with its indeterminate gaze. Roahn, standing above it, looked upon the covering with forlornness and an agonizing sense of inevitability. To her, it represented the lingering memories her own people continued to cling to, this sense of being forever isolated from the people around them. It had been an epidemic that had festered among the quarians, a sense of hopelessness that a solution to their woes would never be discovered.

Still they relied on the suits to preserve their lives.

Still they remained isolated.

With the visor on, she no longer had a face. She became an entity, shared amongst millions. Even after all the medical advances, the quarians still had many barriers to cross.

A soft rapping of knuckles on her door drew Roahn from her introspection with a jolt. Quickly, she grabbed her visor and put it over her face, hearing light and bony clicks emit from the catches and a sucking of gas project into her ears.

"Come in," she announced once she had determined that she was safe to let in outside air from her sterile room. Her voice now had that trademark electronic warble added to its timbre. These vocabulators certainly did not do her people's words any justice.

The door opened and Korridon poked his head in. "Hey, Commander? Is now a good time?"

"Korridon," Roahn warmly smiled behind the visor. "Of course. Please, enter."

The turian dipped his head and scooted past the threshold while the door shut itself behind him. He took a moment to appraise Roahn's room, noting its bare decorating. "I half-expected there to be a fish tank."

The quarian snorted. "They don't let XOs have such baubles. Besides, I'd probably kill the fish accidentally out of neglect. Also, the _Menhir_ was built for functionality, not as a pleasure yacht." She looked down and noticed that Korridon was holding a datapad in a hand. "That for me?"

"Hmm?" the turian snapped his head back, momentarily distracted. He then also realized what he was holding and quickly came back to his senses. "Oh, yes! Yes. I… um… these are the latest engine readouts as well as a list of possible requisitions that could prove beneficial and… do you need me to elaborate on my analysis?"

"No need," Roahn said as she took the datapad and quickly scanned its contents. "This kind of stuff isn't indecipherable to me."

Korridon certainly had been thorough—he had produced complete write-ups of the drive core's specifications and simulated runtimes. The plasma propulsion output had been measured over a set period of time, estimating its power transfer division through the Menhir's conduits to the other systems. The eezo drive temperatures were also found to be within normal limits. The list of items Korridon had provided also showed some initiative on his part, to Roahn's delight. He had emphasized in his summaries that swapping out some of the parts that had been installed on the ship with titanium counterparts would allow for slight increases in performance while also massively improving the engines lifespan. Obvious in hindsight but important observations to make from an engineer's perspective.

"This is very good," Roahn said as she handed the datapad back to the turian. "Send these files to my console so that I can look over them in detail later."

"Of course, commander," Korridon nodded happily, perhaps a bit too rapidly.

Roahn took notice of that. "I'm not going to be a tyrant to you, Korridon. You can relax here, you know."

"I… I do," the turian affirmed. "It still might take me a little while for me to consider all this as normal."

"Believe me, it'll be mundane to you before you know it. But don't lose that enthusiasm. Too many people around here tend to get a little dour. We need someone to help tip the scales in that regard."

"You're probably the first one to regard me as an overall positive person," Korridon ruefully chuckled.

The quarian shrugged. "When your closest comparison is any one of us on board this ship, you tend to shine the brightest. Why the trepidation? Don't like being associated that way?"

"No, it's just…" Korridon shook his head before he began to stare at the floor. Despite being taller, he seemed to shrink underneath Roahn as he sighed. "I just don't see how you could see me like that. I'm the odd one out, here. All I want to do is be indispensable to you guys, but that just means that I'm terrified of making even the slightest mistake. I want to do right by all of you, but I don't know how you can see past my worries."

"We _all_ have worries, Korridon," Roahn stepped forward and placed her right hand upon the turian's arm. Korridon seemed to gain his strength back from the welcoming contact and finally met her eyes with his. "You're not the only one like this. But if you ever think that the weight of the galaxy becomes too heavy for you, tell me. I will help you out any way I can because I also want you to succeed. I'm not going to leave you floundering, okay?"

Emboldened from Roahn's hand upon his arm and assured by her words, Korridon seemed to ruffle up in relief. "Whatever you expect of me, I'll surpass," he promised. "And if Garrus—"

"Don't worry about Garrus," Roahn shook her head. "I'll be between you two in case things get too awkward. But he did mention that you two had a conversation together not too long ago. Seemed like he had a fair opinion of you afterward, to be honest."

Korridon let out a breathy laugh. "Well, I can't get a bead on the guy. But you've known him for far longer—makes sense that you have a better feel for what he's thinking."

"You'll figure him out soon enough. He's only mercurial for the people he doesn't know completely."

"Then I guess we'll find out in due time whether he'll settle for giving me a hug or a punch to the eye," the turian drawled, still tingled with nerves. "Probably both, if I'm lucky."

Roahn gave a short guffaw from Korridon's self-deprecating nature. The turian similarly laughed along with her. The moment only lasted for a few seconds, but it seemed like Roahn had shed a weighty necklace of her combined woes as she had finally been allowed to partake in a moment of delight. Her shoulders seemed to rise up and back—her breathing felt clearer. Neither of them realized it yet, but they would both try to recall such similar moments when they realized how rare they could be.

The two then readied to head over to their positions for the day when Roahn stopped the turian just outside of her room. "Oh, and Korridon?"

"Yes, commander?"

The quarian placed a hand on her hip as she leaned into a more curious pose. "You know, on this ship, around everyone, you don't need to call me 'commander' all the time. I'd rather you call me by my name instead of my rank. All these formalities, they don't need to exist between us."

Korridon blinked. "You mean… 'Shepard?'"

"No, not that one."

"'Roahn?'"

She nodded, meditative and knowing. "That's the one."

The turian faltered, rather confused as to why Roahn had allowed this little breach of decorum. "All right, I guess. But… is there any reason why?"

As a matter of fact, there was. Roahn was already thinking of the multitude of subordinates that had been under her command during her tenure in the Defenders. There had been so many their faces had all blurred together. Even their names, once the only unique pseudonym granting a person their individuality, had all been forgotten. They had either moved on to other companies or had perished in battle, sometimes gloriously but often ignominiously. They died screaming for their mothers, vomiting from pain, their guts messily spilled over their hands. Fostering her explicit attention onto any one of them would have torn Roahn apart—their lifespan was so limited that it made no sense to form attachments to the people under her command. They had half-lives, dictated by a misguided leadership, fighting to achieve uncertain goals.

But here, on the _Menhir_, the consternation had all but vanished. The people here embraced comradeship. Their individual natures were treasured. An opinion carried the mass of a sun instead of a feather.

Just looking at Korridon, Roahn had a feeling he would be around for a long time.

Smiling just enough so that she felt her mood would not be discernable to the turian, Roahn gave a shrug. "If nothing else, the gesture will provide me with the very substance I've been searching for. Coming from you, it'll mean something."

* * *

_Citadel_

The skycar clipped the edges of the sprawl as it sailed over the tangle of skyscrapers, becoming night as it temporarily folded into darkness once its external lights dimmed. The twinkling motes vanished and the dark color of the vehicle melted against the backdrop, obscuring its form to the naked eye.

Inside the craft, Cirae folded her hands together upon her lap, slightly fidgeting in her seat. The windows of the skycar had been blacked out from both the inside and outside—no one could look in but neither could she look out. The acceleration dampeners on the skycar had been tuned to their maximum settings; Cirae could not even feel the craft bank, having no idea what was occurring past the flimsy sheets of metal and glass.

Fifteen minutes ago, she had been waiting inside of a dimly lit café in one of the less glamorous watering holes on the Wards, in a far-away booth as per her instructions from her contact, whom she had been expecting to meet. The place had a subdued atmosphere about it, but the acoustics were such that conversations rarely travelled beyond a bubble of a few feet or so. Not a bad spot to have a clandestine meeting, or so she had figured. She had actually been waiting in the restaurant by herself for close to half an hour (as she had arrived quite early), entertaining herself by watching a few sports games on the closest vidscreens, when she had received a message from her mysterious sponsor to catch a nearby skycar that had been called for her. Obviously she had not anticipated this as being part of the plan but Cirae was still too stubborn and too curious to question the situation further. Not that she could as the call had disconnected before she could get a word in.

The automated VI of the skycar soon chimed, startling Cirae. She had lost track of time ever since she had taken the seat—any interruptions to the maddening isolation she had been placed under were bound to rip her from any reveries. Apparently, they were nearing their destination.

Irritated, Cirae checked her chronometer and saw that close to twenty minutes had passed since she had squeezed herself into this little ship. She knew off the top of her head that, barring traffic, a skycar could reach one end of the Citadel to the other in a little less than ten minutes at full tilt. So, either the VI had been taking Cirae on a convoluted route through all the twisting maintenance shafts the station had to offer, or it was just taking aimless loops around the Presidium to kill time and potentially throw off the trail of anyone who was following.

She had no time to verbally complain because there was a physical shudder of the skycar, bouncing the asari once in her seat, before the doors unlocked and folded open, allowing her to hop out. Her velvet day-use shoes clicked as they found purchased on the scuffed floor. She looked at where she had been deposited. Bulky and loud machinery, bolted onto the walls, whirred as they expelled some sort of misty gas. Bright orange graphics urged caution in a multitude of languages, plastered all around the walls. The floors themselves were grimy and stained—evidentially they had not been given a good cleaning in perhaps a few decades.

If she did not know any better, it seemed like Cirae had just been deposited on the loading dock of a building. Not the most elegant way to make an impression, but it would suffice for subtlety.

Another message soon found its way onto the asari's omni-tool. Cirae quickly glanced at it.

"_Service elevator. Far corner_," it read.

She immediately found what the message was referring to—a set of sliding aluminum doors with reinforced glass acting as a partition. She hit the button to open it and stepped inside the lift. Once the doors shut behind her, the elevator immediately jumped upward, propelling her to heights unknown and a future in doubt.

The service elevator then spat her out into a luxuriously decorated hall, to Cirae's surprise. Now she treaded on soft carpet, noticing that the halls were plastered with fine wallpaper, and that the light fixtures beckoned to ages more classical.

"What the hell is this?" Cirae murmured out loud. "A hotel? An apartment building?"

She turned on the spot, hoping to spy some sort of signage that would otherwise indicate her whereabouts. No such luck. There was nothing of the sort within sight.

Yet another message chimed on her tool. _"#5564_"

At least now she had a final destination, Cirae figured. Quickly, she stalked past the rows of wooden doors, her hands clenched into determined fists, as she kept her head on a swivel, trying to find the room number the message had indicated.

After she had rounded a couple corners, she finally found the right one. She stood in front of the door, momentarily unsure of herself. With bated breath, she reached out and touched the door chime, presumably alerting the occupant inside to her arrival. She did not have to wait very long, because barely five seconds had passed when the locks to the door slid aside and it automatically opened, granting her entry.

Cirae walked inside, noting that she was not having any alarm bells going off inside her head right now. She was unsure if that was because she was naively walking into some sort of trap, or that she had a genuinely optimistic feeling about what was to occur.

The apartment she had just entered was large and elegantly furnished, but the lights had been darkened. A credenza with a stone top greeted her within the foyer, the entrance lined with large slabs of serpentine. The rock gave way to a cappuccino-colored carpet, deep enough for her feet to sink in a quarter of an inch. The asari treaded inside, keeping herself alert, as she entered the living room, where a black leather L-shaped couch (with an accompanying ottoman) waited empty, flanked by a glass cabinet that held an assortment of crystal dishes, and a little table with only room for two, as evidenced by the number of chairs it had.

Behind all of the accoutrements was a windowed wall that projected out towards a balcony. Beyond that partition, Cirae could see the curvature of the Citadel as it sloped up to the circular ring that was the Presidium. Not a bad view, she considered. With the angle of Earth behind it, the tenet here had probably shelled out a fortune in rent just paying for this place.

Speaking of…

"Ours is not normally a clandestine operation," a voice in a clipped accent uttered from behind Cirae, causing the asari to swiftly turn around, "but I have found the ability to be discreet a virtue among our peers. If I may infer, you most likely share the same sentiment?"

Struggling to peer through the shadowed interior, Cirae found that the shape of a singular individual had arrived from an adjacent hallway, standing tall and undoubtedly reveling in keeping the enigma up, even if it was only for a few more seconds.

"So much of what I do falls under a public eye," Cirae stated carefully, keeping herself weary. "There is very little in the way of secrets that I can own. Whatever morsels I can claim to myself, I jealously guard."

"Very true," the figure chuckled politely. "Not so long ago it used to be that the galaxy could be changed for the better by the very placement of a gun. Now it seems that such weapons are only of use to divide it further. We only have our words to act as an adhesive in the meantime, but as you've seen, that's not working out very well, is it? In an era where our foes have legitimacy and financial power, it becomes difficult to dissolve these threats as they crop up."

They started to step forward, the light of the planet slowly bringing their characteristics into view. Long, elegant legs. A blue and white diplomatic dress that could couple as a liberal martial garb. Slender and flawless fingers. Perfectly sculpted brown hair. Features so clear-cut they could have been forged in diamond.

"You're…" Cirae started, realization overwhelming her. "You're…"

"Miranda Lawson," the human woman announced with a grin of pleasure as she held out a hand. "Representative to the Assembly of Earth's twelfth district. Former lieutenant in the Systems Alliance. Former crewmember of the _Normandy_."

"Also ex-Cerberus," the asari said warily as she took the offered hand, before she could stop herself.

The woman offered a shrug of acceptance, not at all perturbed by the asari's statement. "While that had been a decision that I felt was borne from necessity on my part, it certainly wouldn't do to deny that I did work for that organization for a time."

Cirae quickly raised her hands as she realized she might have just delivered a slight. "I did not mean to offend," she said quickly.

Miranda simply chucked and shook her head as a sign for the asari not to worry. "And I did not take offense. I can understand how you must be feeling, left in the dark and wondering what's going on. Were I in your position, I'd try to capitalize on every scrap of information I did know about my counterpart. Fortunately, I have no intention of watching you flounder for my own amusement. Rest assured, I invited you here to shed a little light on your problems."

Gesturing to the couch, implying for Cirae to take a seat, Miranda took up a spot in the middle of the angular sofa, crossing her legs while she waited expectantly for the asari to follow suit. Still reeling, Cirae eventually complied, though her mouth was still barely hanging open.

"So… you're my sponsor," Cirae finally uttered.

Miranda folded her hands together as she leaned back upon the couch, smiling as if she was in possession of all the galaxy's secrets. "Not quite what you were expecting?"

"In the sense that it's _you_ of all people? Truth be told, my expectations have been exceeded."

Miranda laughed, taking stock of the full breadth of Cirae's reactions. "Surprised that the person who was feeding you these little tidbits was not just some obscure politician playing the shadowy game?"

"And who says you're not playing that game right now?" Cirae smirked.

"Good point," Miranda nodded. "But I'm sure that nothing still makes any sense to you, am I wrong?"

"Not at all. In fact, I think I might have _more_ questions right now."

"Hopefully I can address most of them," the woman said. She then considered Cirae thoughtfully, looking upon her as an equal, taking special care to devote her gaze in the direction of the asari's eyes, despite the glumness the room exuded. "The two of us have never met in any capacity before. When there are nearly a thousand representatives that belong to the Assembly, keeping up a complete list of contacts becomes an overwhelming affair."

"I think I would have remembered meeting you in person," Cirae quipped.

"Fortunately, I've had time to keep an eye on things from my position. You can group nearly all of the politicians on the Assembly into only a few categories, surprisingly. You have those that are using their position as a stepping stone, hoping to consolidate power by pandering to donors that could potentially fill their coffers. Then you have the lifers, the ones that see this as the end of the road for them, the pinnacle of their career. They become complacent, content with their lot in life, unfazed to the dealings of the galaxy as it transpires around them." Miranda now tapped her fingers upon the firm leather surface. "And then, you have the idealists. The smallest group. The ones who actively want to make a change for the better, to bludgeon through the bureaucracy to achieve these selfless goals. They have noble thoughts and enter their careers so young and full of hope. But the old guard's tenure proves to be a more resilient roadblock than expected. The idealists begin to lose hope. They gradually leave their positions, feeling that they have accomplished nothing, or they succumb to the malaise and _become_ the old guard, obstinate and jaded."

Cirae said nothing, no doubt understanding the references that Miranda was making. She waited with bated breath, trying to see the endgame that the former operative had in mind for her, seeing as she already had her motives pegged.

Miranda tilted her head and smiled at Cirae. "Idealism. It's something that I wish I had been fostered with earlier in life. I had a more abnegated beginning. A product of my environment, most likely. But that's neither here nor there. What is important now is the very fact that you have not allowed yourself to be tempted by the increasing pessimism that has engulfed our colleagues. That, even now, you still carry within you a certain idealization about a better galaxy. It's bold. A bit naïve, but admirable nonetheless."

The asari chewed her lip as the two considered each other for a moment of silence. Then Cirae rasped a weary laugh.

"There are probably many others as 'naïve' as me in similar positions," she said. "What made me so special, Representative Lawson?"

"Miranda, please," the human raised a hand off her knee two inches. "And you shouldn't take your disposition negatively. I'm aware of the problems you've been facing with your own faction leader. You're stubborn and you have grit, but compared to the others in so-called 'similar positions,' they haven't been through the same experiences you have. Most of the representatives are career politicians, having risen from the ranks back at home to finally make it to the Citadel, what they consider to be a political terminus. You're older than your optimistic peers, not to mention wiser. Plus, you used to be a soldier, which means that you can attest to the sort of government inaction that has influenced your positions today. All of this means that you're far less likely to budge from what you believe simply _because_ you've seen the dark side of politics."

"And you don't have any reservations about partnering with an asari, I take it?"

Miranda put on a slightly hurt face. "One of the benefits that I had from working with Commander Shepard is that he helped me to see past such petty viewpoints, Cirae. Granted, he didn't have to work that hard to help me pull the wool from my eyes, but I've been trying to take a look at the bigger picture ever since then, to search for solutions that would be more viable in the long-term."

"You're right," Cirae conceded as she dipped her head in shame. "That wasn't nice of me. I apologize for that, Miranda."

"None taken," the human said gratefully. "But that _is_ one of the reasons why I called you here today. It's _because_ I can't shake these preconceptions of my character that I need someone to partner with for what is to come."

Cirae narrowed her eyes as she no longer reclined upon the couch. "I was about to point out that you still had not specifically mentioned why I was here."

"I'm still getting to that. Upon meeting me here today, one of your first associations was tying me to my Cerberus past, right?"

"Yes," Cirae agreed, though with some regret that the thought had popped into her head to begin with.

"So," the human smiled sanguinely, "it seems like such an insignificant thing to get worked up over, especially now, but what a lot of these politicians can do very well is both spin and project. Put it this way, if I were to announce to the public that I was opening an investigation into a… a certain senator's affair—just an example—many of those senator's allies would instantly jump on me to use my unfortunate past against me, to try and bind me to the Cerberus organization to deny me public favor."

"I wouldn't be surprised if that turned out to be the case," Cirae drawled.

"But you see where I'm coming from? No matter how legitimate my position may be, I'm always standing on tenuous ground. But… if I had someone on my side backing up my position, making our side look more legitimate in the process…"

"…And if that person happened to be of another race," Cirae realized, "that would render your supposedly racist past null, wouldn't it? You want me to be your shield for whatever you have concocted?"

Miranda looked proud of herself as she stood from the couch, motioning for Cirae to walk while they did a lap of the living room as they simultaneously navigated between expensive pieces of furniture. "You and I both know that the current situation with the Assembly is a mirage. You saw it at the CCA deposition when Kaidan had his time wasted by such basic questions."

"If only I had been a member," Cirae said. "I would have liked to have asked some questions of my own."

"Ah, but I don't think either of us will get any chances like that. The both of us are too idealistic for our own good, but how can we be not when we've seen what inaction and corruption brings to the table? We're not in this for power, Cirae. We're here because we had a glimpse of what our galaxy should be like, but that faded away before we knew what became of it. It passed by so quick, like a dream half-remembered after the awakening. You see the obvious problems, just like I do."

"If by problems you're referring to the fact that there is a noticeable lack of governance upon the PMCs that practically gives them the authority to run amok, that we have a military force under the Council banner that is a laughing stock, and the only governmental body capable of doing something about it is willfully abdicating its duties, refusing to take decisive action for the whole sorry affair?" Cirae raised what constituted as an eyebrow.

They had now stopped in front of the picture window, watching the horn of Africa lazily pass below the Presidium like a gigantic pupil within an eyeball.

"You think that it's so obvious that you wonder why no one else has spoken up about it," Miranda stated.

"Like I'm the only one who can't get the joke."

Miranda now cocked her head at Cirae and turned her body to squarely face her. "Then what would you do if I told you that there just might be a way to peel back the curtain? To expose the punchline, as you put it."

"Such a possibility would not see a refusal from me," Cirae answered.

"Then wait here for a second," Miranda said as she abruptly departed Cirae's presence. The asari was left there for a few moments, temporarily clueless, awkwardly taking halfhearted glances between the hallway that the human just departed from and the intoxicating web of skycar lanes creating grids of light over her head. Fortunately, Miranda was not too long and she came back with something clutched in her hand. She held it out to Cirae, exposing a flat disclet in her palm, no bigger than the diameter of a drink can and ringed with oceanic blue light.

Cirae took the data disc, keeping it perched between two fingers, staring at Miranda all the while. "You going to tell me what's on this?"

Miranda's knowing look remained etched in place. "Another piece of the puzzle, but it'll be more effective if you realize it for yourself. It's biometrically linked to your code, so only you can open it. But I have to warn you, do not access its contents unless you're absolutely sure you want to know more."

Cirae now glanced at the disc she held in her hand. "Don't tell me. The files have trackers embedded within them, sending out alerts to people who would wish harm upon anyone that sees them?"

"Oh god, no," Miranda chuckled. "No, you're safe from all that. For now."

Cirae's eyes became slits at that, but she let the human continue.

"I'm just going to tell you this: if you do look at what the disc contains, you're not going to want to stop looking for the ultimate truth. Witnessing at what I've provided will only be an incentive to you, a reason to step up your searching. It is the confirmation you always knew was there. But you won't be able to keep your enlightenment hidden forever. Those with power greater than ours will work to suppress any information by any means necessary. You need to be prepared for that, and that's why I felt I should warn you before you go opening that disc."

Cirae's mouth became a crooked line. "You make it sound like I'll just be painting a target on my back."

"In a sense, that's what it is," Miranda apologetically shrugged. "But I guarantee you that, even when you get the chance to step away and get off scot-free, you won't. We can help each other, Cirae. We know what's at stake because of what our experiences have molded us into. If you want to walk that path with me, you have everything you need to catch up in your hand. Take a few days and think about it. But don't wait too long. We all have targets on our back now and it won't be an easy endeavor to scour them away."

Silhouetted before the vibrant world, arm still outstretched after accepting the gift, Cirae stilled herself into a rigid form, palpitations in her chest steadily rising. The olive branch touching her palm, she could only now imagine its leaves were brushed with poison, one that had already seeped into her skin and damned her for all time.

But the poison was a diluted mix, in no way comparable to the one that had already polluted her life with its noxious and venomous qualities. The toxin of lethargy. A detached heedlessness that had already sealed the fate of many of her brethren.

Unease creeping up to make her fraught with anxiety, Cirae fiddled with the disk in her hand, unable to determine if she had been provided an antidote to the corruption that she knew to be existent, or if she was doomed to release yet another contagion upon herself.

Neither woman would utter another word to the other, both damned in their own regard.

* * *

**A/N: Crazily enough, this only marks the first 1/3 of the way through Monolith (chapter-wise). That's right, this is probably going to be my most lengthy story after this is all said and done. Utter madness. Everything becoming a little more clear to you all? No?**

**Heh, good.**

**Be sure to let me know what you like or dislike about the story so far! I'm always eager to see comments and reviews from readers-I'll always be appreciative of the time you take to leave a few words.**

**Playlist:**

**Calisthenics**  
**"The Rig"**  
**Steve Jablonsky**  
**Deepwater Horizon (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**The Alien Lovers**  
**"Intriguing Possibilities"**  
**Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross**  
**The Social Network (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Enter Miranda**  
**"The Primer"**  
**Alan Silvestri**  
**Contact (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	13. Chapter 13: People Were Here, Once

"_Trust us, you're going to want to import a profile from ME1. Don't say you weren't warned."_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

Kodiak

Aloft in the grasp of gravity's parabolic pull, the Kodiak shuttle, flung from the _Menhir_, embarked upon its treacherous path as it passed through nothingness to meet the brick wall that was a planetary atmosphere. Hot air cracked at the skin of the craft, painting black streaks of soot upon its sides. The shuttle briefly became a comet, one in control of its own arc, as fire rained in a long tail in its wake.

Oblivious to the storming hellscape just inches beyond the metallic armor, Roahn sat with her arms folded upon one of the shuttle's benches, lightly bouncing to the turbulence. Within the Kodiak she was joined by her captain, Garrus, as well as Skye and Grunt. The large krogan was occupying himself by idly spinning the barrels of his enormous shotgun, eager to fight. Skye's head was lightly tipped downward—she was in a semi-doze.

Once the mild cataclysm of reentry had ceased and the shuttle's engines exerted a greater amount of force upon itself that that the planet exuded, Garrus stood from his seat and activated a comm-link to the _Menhir_. Roahn elbowed Skye awake and the human righted herself with a panicked snort.

"Take it away, Sagan," Garrus rapped his knuckles upon the interior of the shuttle, producing a frightfully loud banging noise that was sure to emit over the comms.

The waveform visualization upon the holographic screen briefly fizzled as the geth on the other end made a blipping noise out of curiosity. But before anyone outside of the four individuals already in the shuttle could consider the implications of what reservations a semi-sentient electronic intelligence could possibly possess, the geth had already started speaking in its calm and dulcet tones.

"_The Council forwarded an emergency broadcast to Umbra from Palaven Command, originally sent out nine hours ago_," Sagan informed the warriors lining the benches. "_One of their colonies on the world of Ratinena missed the last two communication windows. Based on data accumulated from patrol ships in the area, they have reason to suspect that a private military company is responsible for the disturbance_."

"Now why am I not surprised to hear that?" Skye grumbled.

"_A PMC by the name of Zero Sum has Ratinena in its operating radius. They are your expected targets for today. They're a multinational corporation based on Illium—they recruit from a wide spectrum of races and their financial backers provide them with the latest in equipment. Expect heavy resistance. Palaven is looking for an accounting of all their missing colonists. Umbra is to provide a reporting on their whereabouts as well as their status of life_."

"Sagan," Roahn asked, "why did the colonists come to Ratinena in the first place? What sort of resources are accounting for their income?"

"_Ratinena is not a mining colony_," Sagan answered immediately. "_It is a Palaven-sanctioned settlement meant to support a new nexus of colonization in the Terminus. The settlement had a three-phase development cycle; three waves of settlers would arrive on the world in five-year increments. Current population is the surveying team plus the initial families selected to accelerate the population towards a progressive state. One hundred and fifty lifeforms are expected down below._"

"Guess we're breaking out the long-range scanners," Grunt murmured. "Lot of bodies to locate on foot otherwise."

"_The Kodiak's on-board suite will be available at your disposal should you encounter any difficulties with finding the bodies. Other than that, your operational effectiveness precludes a high probability of success for this mission. We anticipate your next update to be within the hour._"

"Careful, Sagan," Garrus said with a smirk. "Don't inflate our egos too much. We haven't even touched down yet."

"_Simply stating facts denoted by the empirical evidence, captain_."

"That right? With such certainty, one would think that you've developed an optimistic streak, Sagan."

"_Then that would be you contorting the data that I just presented to you to fit a translation which reads as an emotional response_."

Garrus rolled his eyes. "You take all the fun out of things, Sagan," he said before he cut the comm link. He then looked at Roahn, as if he was expecting her to provide an explanation for the geth's splinter-slight quirky nature. The quarian just offered a minute shrug, not at all interested in trying to guess the geth's true state. She had only _reconstructed_ him. She was not his creator, so she could not attest at what his grand design had been for, his rather odd outlook on life notwithstanding.

The Kodiak's VI now took them on a direct course for the colony instead of having the squad bivouac miles from the town for a couple of hours in the vain promise of stealth. The shuttle was quiet enough to not attract any attention if it approached the colony in the right direction. Additionally, helping their case was the fact that the landing pad was a fair walk away from the main settlement, which had been positioned at the mouth of a valley that spat out veins of crystal mountain water into a broad and fertile green plain that stretched out to touch the paper mountains ridging the far end of the basin. Barely a leaf on the sprawling forest bristled from the slight breeze buffeted by the shuttle moving past just overhead.

Cold, breathable air greeted the group once the doors opened. A cloudless sky lay draped above them. Caps of white sat upon the highest mountain peaks, delicate dollops applied to the savage ridges. The color of the bright grass was blinding—the stalks gently waved in an aquatic dance and its smell, amplified by the morning wetness, poured in through Roahn's olfactory filters, overwhelming even through her mask.

Before them lay a stone path that led to the colony just half a mile away, several dozen meters below their position at the bottom of a slight hill. A fetch of more prefabs lay clumped together in a childlike sorting, dirt-spattered avenues scything between them, but the inherent structure of the grid was difficult to discern from this distance. Dots of farming buildings spotted the horizon amongst the upturned earth. A tall communications antenna marked the center of the town, the skeletal spire standing as a locus for all sight. From this first impression, the colony here was in a far more suitable and hospitable location than the last one they had visited, but that did not in any way contribute to their readiness decreasing.

The four of them proceeded from the landing pad with their weapons out. Garrus took point with Roahn just strung along behind him, both touting assault rifles. Skye kept an eye out on their flanks, sweeping in wide arcs with her sniper rifle. Grunt ambled in the middle, face firmly locked forward, breathing in slow pants through thick nostrils.

"Skye," Garrus uttered after they had traversed maybe a tenth of a mile down the slight incline, "get a bead on the town and tell us if you see any movement."

The four parked behind a set of anthracite boulders, speckled with glittering oxides. Skye perched on one of the taller rocks, took a knee, and dutifully appraised the settlement below.

"Nothing," she shook her head. "I can't see anything to report. It's all quiet down there, captain."

"Not exactly encouraging," the turian sighed. "Stay alert as we head down there. There may someone looking to ambush us."

Roahn shared the same conclusions as her superior. A quiet and deserted town was nothing to relax over. Considering the fact that she _wanted_ there to be some civilian activity that could be ascertained, this just conjured up more dread than anything else.

The four continued onto the path in their previous formation, boots softly treading from heel to toe to keep their steps silent. They all snaked their way past stacks of supply crates, abandoned auto-loaders, and the occasional pothole in the paved trail. Roahn took a moment to activate her visor's IR function so she could see the view-finding lasers that all their weapons continually emitted just to watch them cut paths through the air in wide fans. A quick scroll through all of her other wavelengths told the same story that the colony looked to be abandoned—no trace of life could be determined.

As they reached the first cluster of what looked to be residence housing, Roahn made the distressed comparison that, no matter how varied and wondrous the settings for these colonies were, the prefabricated styling of the housing really set a drab and inconspicuous haze upon the whole affair. She had to concede that providing trace elements of the familiar was a psychologically proven way to assist the colonists in adjusting to foreign lands, but it was just the uninspired nature of the bone-white buildings, with their rounded corners and their industrial paneling, that just set a depression upon her. If she had wanted to live on an untamed world, Roahn would have preferred setting down roots in a settlement that utilized the world's resources instead of importing incongruent stylings.

Upon reaching the site's first intersection, Garrus craned his head back and forth, still unable to perceive any signs of life. "Roahn, with me," he then said. "Grunt, Skye, take the other end of the street. Let me know if you find the colonists."

Lowly, the squad split and headed to investigate the first few quadrants that were in their sector. Roahn had brought breaching charges just in case she would encounter any locked doors that barred her path, but she needn't have bothered. All the doors were unlocked anyway.

Both Garrus and Roahn inspected the first few buildings to no avail. No colonists, alive or dead. All Roahn had managed to find were a few lockers containing spare credit chits, health stations with medi-gel still inside, and even heavy weapon ammo lockers with a few clips having spilled out from the overturned containers. Roahn had no reservations about pocketing the offered supplies—she was of a mind that her need for the materials was far greater since she was here looking to "rescue" the people here. It made sense to abide by the procure-on-sight protocols in order to accomplish the mission objectives.

The same result repeated itself for the next three buildings. It was only on the fourth one that the mission no longer became routine.

The building in question was the local commissary, as the signage on the front so specifically stated. The first inclination that something was off was noticed by Roahn as she was ascending the ramp to enter—dark streaks upon the floor like the first few brushes upon a canvas etched a dying tableau. A sickly blue-black color. Blood.

"_Garrus_," she whispered, loud enough that the turian was able to hear. The two slowed their strides, taking their time in ascending the last few steps so that they could enter after confirming that the building inside was absent of any villainous presence.

As it turned out, the building _was_ occupied but not in the sense that all the patrons within were living.

There were twelve of them. Bodies in all the shapes of their demise—all turian. Splayed upon the ground. Slumped over dining tables, partially eaten food trays next to their heads. Seated in painful throes, their glassy eyes wide in panic. They had all looked to have died in the same moment, midway through their supper.

A lump forming in Roahn's throat, she moved to check the closest body, one that was lying prostrate upon the floor in front of her. She grabbed at a shoulder and gently turned the corpse over, keeping her breath shallow. Blood-filled eyes that looked like marbles could not stare back at her. The dead turian's tongue lolled out of an open mouth, thick and bloated with death. Roahn tried not to look at the body's face as she searched for the cause of death, her gloved fingers hovering over the blood-soaked clothes in her examination, but she could find no external wounds. No gunshot holes. No gashes from knives. No arteries severed or any other wounds that could explain the massive loss of blood.

It was almost as if the dead turian had simply and unexpectedly bled out of every orifice.

"Just like on Earth," Roahn murmured as she slowly rose.

"What was that?" Garrus asked but the quarian was not listening.

In a rush, Roahn went from body to body, all of which the exact same thing to her from their demise. No evidence of physical trauma at all. It was as if everyone in this room had dropped dead instantaneously, at the exact same second. The traumatic loss of blood had once turned this entire room slippery with gore, but it had dried into a flaky crust, creating scuffing noises as Roahn stepped into it.

As she rotated on the spot, Roahn fought like hell to keep her agitation clamped down. "Garrus, I've seen this before."

"You have?"

"Yes. Back on Earth, when I was in the Defenders, we came across this room filled with bodies, just like these. All killed by what looked like… massive hemorrhages. It's the exact same situation."

Garrus nudged the closest body with a foot, managing to remain dispassionate. "Not a natural affliction, I'm guessing? Unless everyone in this building had the exact same heart condition _and_ managed to have a catastrophic circulatory system failure at the same time, this looks like they've all been victims of a mass murder."

"But how?" Roahn asked as she walked between the rows of corpses. "What sort of weapon has the ability to do something like this?"

"Nothing I've ever seen," Garrus shook his head as he braved the sight of the gore-flecked bodies with an unflinching eye. "And believe me, I've seen a lot."

Roahn knelt back down to trace the outlines of how the trails of blood had traversed in serpentine waves before terminating in their halted clot. "They all died here. All gathered for their meal. No footprints. No drag marks. This was done at a distance. None of these bodies were meant as a display."

The turian was obviously having difficulty mulling this over. "No discernable motive and our only casualties are civilians here. What are we missing, Roahn? What kind of importance does this place have to anyone that is worth killing for? And _where_ are the perpetrators that did the slaughter?"

Right as Roahn was standing back up, something in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Fogged and dark outlines approached just outside the window, silent and menacing. Garrus' back was to the encroaching strangers, unaware of their approach. Right before the window exploded in a hail of bullets and glass, Roahn grabbed at the turian and forced him behind a pillar, errant shards narrowly grazing his face while clear pellets bounced harmlessly off of the quarian's enviro-suit.

The crisp air sizzled with the crackling of rifle reports. Both Roahn and Garrus grunted audibly as they ducked into cover under the windows. The dull thunks of bullets smacking against the sides of the commissary reverberated in wide tremors, savage in their force but miniscule in their duration.

"Yeah, maybe I should think before I open my mouth," Garrus managed to get out in a lull in the fire, already in the process of preparing an assault from the covered position. "You get a good look at these guys?"

Roahn shook her head, but quickly edged her visor out from behind the doorway before another round of burst fire forced her back inside.

"I counted at least six," she said. "PMC mercs, definitely. Blue and gold armor."

"That'll be Zero Sum," Garrus said. "Blue and gold are their colors. You said there were only six?"

"Looked like it, though more might have been out of sight close by."

Another shriek of machine gun fire caused Garrus to wince. "Six is too few to pacify a colony of this size." The turian then activated his close-range comm. "Grunt, Skye, we've encountered resistance. Give me a sitrep on your end!"

Grunt's voice was the first to break out. "_Yeah, we've got some idiots over here as well. Small patrol—only four of them. We'll have them dealt with soon. Don't tell me you need help on your end?_"

"Just finish mopping up your bogeys and flank the squad attacking us when you have a chance, if we haven't taken care of them by then."

"_Will be there shortly_."

Still firmly embedded in her cover, Roahn gripped the under-barrel of her rifle as she looked to her captain. "I'm still at full shields. Need me to give these guys some difficulty?"

Garrus rotated his body, readying himself in a half-crouch. "And let you have all the work?"

"That's what I thought," Roahn smirked before she lunged out, bringing herself into view past the shattered window.

The first thing that Roahn noticed, as she was bringing the viewfinder of her weapon up to her head, was that the Zero Sum contractors had arranged themselves in a wide line, facing nearly perpendicular to her position without utilizing any cover. Stupid of them, she figured. They had probably thought that they had the advantage with their numbers that they would not need to approach this encounter intelligently, if they even had enough brain cells shared between them to approach a concept of intelligence.

They fired first, but Roahn's shields still held. She was rocked back on the balls of her heels as eruptions of static washed over her, but was otherwise unhurt. Angered at the tiny flares of pain from her shoulders, Roahn relined her first shot up before unleashing a salvo that shredded the air in red-hot lines. Her first bullets slammed straight into the chin of the central mercenary, pounding through his shields and neck, causing an explosion of blood and bone to erupt at the base of his head. He crumbled with an undignified gasp.

The mercenaries only then began to scramble for cover upon seeing one of their own fall. Their shots went wild and high. Roahn kept herself moving within the commissary, taking care to target one contractor at a time, sometimes shooting through the walls and the windows yet unbroken to hound the predators that had so underestimated them. Two more mercenaries began a hesitant charge but Roahn and Garrus' combined fire was so focused that the armored men seemed to be coming apart as they staggered forward, with bits of ragged flesh being flung in all directions.

Bedlam began to take hold of the attackers, now unnerved that their forces had been thinned in half. One particularly bold member tried to storm the entrance of the building that Roahn and Garrus had holed themselves up in, armed with nothing but a shotgun. Garrus shot him dead with a pistol round at point-blank range—the mercenary had forgotten to check his corners as he had entered.

At this point, the remaining Zero Sum members had had enough. Not only had this ambush failed miserably, Roahn and Garrus were even more galvanized from the direct threat than they had been in their previously uncertain state. They began to retreat in their panic, but not before Garrus loosed one last shot, flat and dead in the newfound emptiness, that struck one of the fleeing mercenaries in the lower spine. The man gave a small cry, pitched face-first into the mud, and died.

The entire skirmish had taken barely more than a minute. Roahn's breathing had slowed to a crawl in that time, each one of her senses heightened. The thud of adrenaline coursing through her produced a tug at the edges of her vision. The threat of being shot at certainly did a number on her body's chemistry.

"Grunt," Garrus panted after a few seconds had passed, "cancel that request. Tell us where you're at. We'll come to you."

"_Just follow the gunfire. More mercs have joined the fight at my position. There's still time for you to claim the scraps_."

To emphasize that point, as the ringing in Roahn's ears began to fade, she could discern the faint popping of rifles going off in the distance. Fairly close, she determined, within a quarter-mile radius from their position. Their own weapons were barely wisping, with tender trails of smoke vanishing inches into their ascent from the warmed metal.

"Things all good on your end?" Garrus asked Roahn.

"No problems here," she reported. "Ready to set off."

The two then began booking it towards the source of the continued fight. They did not break out into a full sprint, but at a purposeful jog while keeping their weapons raised as they were on the lookout for more mercenaries springing out of the woodwork.

Gray rifle smoke rolled through the streets and alleys as Roahn and Garrus chanced upon more Zero Sum contractors along their route. What Roahn was now able to notice was that, despite the impressively heavy caliber of weapons these fellows were touting, their armor was completely pristine, un-nicked by shrapnel, gunfire, or any other thoughtless projectile. All were spotless and virgin to warfare, she realized.

Her own weapon thundered as she calmly lined up shot after shot. The Zero Sum mercenaries tried to fire back, or flee behind stacks of crates, but many collapsed with pneumatic sighs, their chests punched with holes. One of Garrus' shots caught an engineer in the neck—blood sprayed in a pressurized fountain. Another engineer tried to set up an automated turret, but he had done so in the middle of the avenue where Roahn had a clear shot. Her three-round burst smacked the man in the wrist, partially severing it, and causing it to flap about uselessly like a pathetic puppet. While the engineer was screeching in pain, clasping at his wounded arm, Garrus helped finish him off with a burst of his own, shooting the top of his dome off in a red and black gore-stained pop.

A grenade from the enemy sailed over a set of barricades to land at Roahn's feet. Without thinking, she bent down and chucked it right back. The idiots had not bothered to cook it at all. She was rewarded with an immediate detonation soon after—many of the contractors were flung in all directions, some of them killed outright, others in the process of dying after having their abdomen torn open, viscera spilling into the streets. Roahn took a breath and charged through the Zero Sum lines, ignoring the weak stirring of the injured. She burst through the boundary of dust and smoke, rifle gripped in both hands, her breathing locked down to an easy-going tempo.

The two of them managed to make it to the other end of the compound after that without encountering any more unwanted resistance. To their surprise, they had come upon the rest of the Zero Sum contractors at their rearward flank with none of them even taking the time to see if anyone had been creeping around from behind. Very, very sloppy. Zero Sum, right now, was mostly concentrated on plugging away at Grunt and Skye's position within one of the many hovels in the colony. They looked to be having as much success as Roahn and Garrus' ambushers had been.

Grunt and Skye had certainly done a number on their attackers before Roahn had arrived on the scene. Several Zero Sum members already lay dead in the muck between the two lines, blood and guts rolling down the ramps, staining the tiles below. One armored corpse looked like its arm had been forcefully separated from its body—Grunt's handiwork, most likely. The krogan was quite fond of ripping his enemies to pieces with his bare hands if they dared venture too close to him.

Roahn and Garrus hunkered behind a stack of crates, waiting for the right moment to present itself. In that time, they saw the enormous body of the krogan step out from behind a doorway and unleash a vibrant red overcharged burst towards one of the hapless contractors. The mercenary exploded in a red tidal wave, only bits of his extremities tumbling to the ground in gory clumps while the majority of his body had been converted to heat and noise.

Zero Sum's strength was down to five now. But that would soon be corrected even further.

Wordlessly, Roahn and Garrus jumped out from where they had been hiding, their weapons set to automatic, and gunned down the rest of Zero Sum's forces in the blink of an eye. They swept their weapons in tight angles, producing overlapping blades of fire that ripped through shields, plastic, and flesh. The chests of the contractors erupted in violent sprays, their organs pulverized, and they pitifully gurgled as they found themselves on the receiving blows of Roahn's revenge. Gore flecked the sides of nearby construction equipment and clouds of red colored the air, made vibrant by the overwhelming blue sky.

The last of the Zero Sum mercenaries fell, fingers outstretched to the perfect moon hovering above as the final echo made its impression known in the valley.

"All clear!" Roahn cried as the bodies she just felled quit their twitching. She kept her weapon raised, as did Garrus, as they stepped over the riddled bodies they had just felled, making their way towards Grunt's position.

The unhurt krogan stepped out from the shack without a shred of anxiety present in his expression. "Might want to check on the human," he cocked his head back inside. "Took a round in the side as things started to heat up."

Roahn paled in an instant, her extremities turning to ice. The pounding of blood thundering in her ears, she immediately pushed past the krogan and stowed her rifle upon her back as she skidded inside. Skye was lying against the wall, eyes closed in a daze. One of her hands was clasped just below the side of her ribcage, thin branches of blood gently weeping from between her fingers.

"Aw… damn it, Skye," Roahn sighed as she kneeled down to inspect the human.

Skye cracked open an eyelid and gave a weak smile. "Look at you. You care after all."

"Shut up," Roahn snapped as a pale fire razed her insides. "Move your hand. How bad is it?"

"_Mmph_," Skye grunted as she rested her head back. "It hurts, if that's what you mean."

With some effort, Roahn was able to pry Skye's fingers away from covering the wound. It was not as bad as it initially appeared, actually. A bullet from a mercenary had made a lucky shot on the human, penetrating her shields and armor, and had punctured its way through the flesh of her side. No organs had been hit and no bones had been broken—it had gone in and back out again, a lucky wound. Skye had already applied medi-gel to the injury—the blood had mostly clotted, but it simply felt good for the human to apply pressure to the area.

Skye watched Roahn perform her field diagnosis, noting that Roahn seemed to be making a genuine effort to not look directly at her eyes. Either the quarian was that determined at examining the people under her charge, or she was deliberately avoiding the unconscious confirmation that both knew resided between them.

Roahn finally pronounced Skye to not be in any immediate danger with a simple clap to her shoulder plate. "You're going to be sore for a couple of days. Maybe a day of bedrest is in your future, but you'll live."

"How fortunate," the human said.

Grunt and Garrus had also trudged inside, keeping a watchful eye for anything moving outside. "Heard you guys found some bodies at another part of the compound," the krogan said. "We ran across a slew of corpses our edge as well—no gunshot wounds, all having died at once."

"That was our observation as well," Garrus nodded with a grim look. "All with no solid leads as to what really happened here."

"A cowardly attack. A fight like this should not be done in the shadows."

Roahn's hands returned to her rifle as she stood up from the weary Skye. "There could still be a chance for us. There's a data center in the middle of the colony—just across the street. The security footage might still be intact. I could hack in, extract the data from the hard drives, and we can recompile it back on the _Menhir_."

Garrus waved a hand. "Go see what you can do, then. Keep a lookout in case more Zero Sum idiots are hiding out. Grunt will take Skye back to the shuttle and I'll do a little reconnoiter of the immediate area."

"Got it," Roahn said as she was already out the door.

The unpolluted sky above was starting to turn the color of melted gold as the sun began to set, creeping towards the uneven ridges of the shuddering mountains in the distance. Yellow light turned soft and liquid against any surface that was reflective—the light filaments in the streets were starting to flicker on, dousing the quarian with a radiant bath. A dusty band of stars rimmed the world—pinpricks through the rapidly darkening blanket.

The data center was immediately identifiable by the looming and skeletal communications tower. Wires and metal pipes snaked through the supports like sturdy arteries, feeding the lifeblood of information gleaned from the rounded plates that were the antenna dishes high above. The door was left unlocked—big surprise—and Roahn wandered in after switching over to one of her heavy pistols, now in close quarters. Two rows of chilled databanks greeted her right away after passing through a small administrative office. Her current objective.

Roahn headed over to the main console of the colony's database and plugged in her hacking software, which cracked the simple encryption in mere moments. Right away, she had access to the colony's root folder, along with all the security footage that had managed to be captured in the last few days.

There was not any time to painstakingly comb through the hours upon hours of film shot from multiple angles. Roahn had a better idea and connected her own virtual database to the colony's, initiating a copy program to clone the contents of the databanks over to her omni-tool. The local connection was fast and blisteringly quick—according to her tool, it would only take a little less than two minutes to copy the entirety of the 3.4 petabytes of data to her own personal storage.

While she was doing that, Roahn was admittedly blankly staring at the progress bar rushing to completion that she very nearly missed the soft sound of a nearby door opening. A draft blew at her _sehni_ and a low drone began to emit in the pit of her ears.

Someone was in the room with her.

The air became cold and the flickering of the console screen seemed to set the side of Roahn's face ablaze with its orange light as the quarian slowly turned in place. Her numb hand fumbled for a pistol and she breathed out in savage hisses as a spear of dread tickled at the back of her neck.

"Garrus?" she called out, trying not to let the fear shake her words. "Grunt?"

No one answered. Roahn raised the gun towards the bare side of the room, towards where a corner blocked the rest of her view of the interior. Her thumb snaked towards the safety, flicking it off with a simple movement.

Then… as if they had emitted from a void, long and thick sounding footsteps subtly shook the building. Shadows seemed to dance and undulate in ecstatic tentacles, looking to grip anything in their path. Roahn pressed herself to the console as she continued to aim down her sights, eyes wide and on the verge of panic.

All of a sudden, a violent pain sprung up at the edge of her stump, so intense that Roahn could not hold her cry back. Her pistol tumbled from her fingers as she fell to her knees, driven to the point of breathlessness as the sawing sensations of her flesh being torn asunder strove to rip her mind apart.

_No… no…_

"_Roahn?_" Garrus' voice spoke over the comm. "_Roahn, what's your position?_"

An armored foot strode from behind the corner, from a hidden doorway that Roahn had not seen. Trails of a long black cloak accompanied it, brushed over the top of an enormous and terrible figure. Their hands held no weapon, but one gigantic limb carried an object of what looked to be made of delicate black glass—its base was made up of curved prongs that swirled around a circular center, much like a fossilized octopus, held gently between gleaming silver fingers. The light like a coal fire touched the intruder, erupting a distant conflagration in the reflection of his domed helmet, of which no breath exuded and whose gaze was indeterminable and everlasting.

He saw the quarian trembling on the ground and he took a tender step in her direction. Grasping at her limb, Roahn nearly howled out a low keen for her perceived impotence, her nerves seemingly getting the better of her. She hobbled back to her feet, her pistol still on the ground, out of reach, and she staggered to her feet, every single nerve in her brain flaring at once.

_Run. Run. Run._

Watching the quarian, Aleph dipped his head a millimeter, their gazes touching and the stillness between them gaining in mass, drawing them together like a singularity.

"_Roahn, come in!_" Garrus continued calling out. "_Roahn, respond!_"

Squaring his stance, Aleph waited until Roahn had staggered back to her full height, patient while he cradled the unknown object in his hand. He seemed to hone in on Roahn's prosthesis, seemingly admiring the vein-like firelight that surged up the panels that made up her arm.

His foot then nudged the pistol that had fallen between the two of them. Stowing the object in his hand in a compartment at his back, Aleph bent down and plucked the weapon from the floor. He began to walk in a circle around the shaking quarian, who was feeling a crushing pressure at the base of her skull and at her very bones, driving her towards the spot she stood upon like a gravity well. Her stomach heaved and she gagged, but there was nothing to expel.

Still circling her, remaining ever quiet, Aleph tenderly held the pistol in his hand before, without looking, he softly began dismantling it in his fingers, dropping metallic innards upon the ground in a torturous symphony. He was not even looking at what his hands were accomplishing as he completely demolished the gun in seconds, knowing which clasps to flip from memory alone. With the remains of the pistol now at his feet, Aleph stopped his perimeter walk directly in front of Roahn, taking consideration of her with a soft and unnervingly childlike disposition.

"**It was inevitable that we would meet again**," the horrifying voice spoke. Dark and stormy, but also cultured. "**Old wounds cast aside in the hunt of context. Noble prey, but it is a journey that has already taken payment from you. Though to find you here… suggests you might already be oblivious to the peril."**

Roahn found she could not speak, seeing her own distorted reflection in the curved helmet morph and violate itself into twisted shapes.

"**You've recovered quickly but at the expense of your physical form, it appears. Time and your totality sacrificed—embracing artificiality to pursue a perceived triumph. A decision made in haste, you may find." **

The helmet dipped further and Roahn could envision only a terrible smile in the gesture.

"**All on my behalf, I wonder?**"

The pain restarted anew, invisible threads pulled so taut, burning all the while, that they seemed to trace the outline of her missing limb. Roahn fought back a gasp as she stumbled back a step, unable to tear herself away from the enormous figure.

Despite herself, Roahn fumbled for an oblong object at her back, flicking away the clasps to pry it free from her belt. She pressed her thumb to the deadman's switch of the grenade, beginning a silent countdown in her head.

To even be in the presence of this monster again…

"You're right," she seethed as she brought her arm back, her own mind feeling like it was tearing as she moved out of alignment, tipping her weight back on her heels. "It was all for you, _you sick fuc—!"_

Taking a massive step forward, the incendiary grenade sailed out of Roahn's hand, a stone carried aloft by the curved arc of force. Roahn's face twisted in a roar as she loosed the projectile with all her strength, sapping the discomfort away from her missing arm to cause tensile aches in the rest of her body.

The grenade hung in the air, impassively blinking, as it looked to be headed on course for Aleph's domed helmet. But Aleph, seemingly clothed in smoke, whipped his free arm up faster than the eye could blink. Static discharges ripped across a flat expanse of air and an energetic shield rippled into being with a loud crackle that Roahn felt in the back of her teeth. Almost carelessly, Aleph batted his arm aside, like he was swatting a fly, and the grenade impacted with a tiny shockwave upon the shield. Jolts of electricity arced between the two objects and the grenade's kinetic energy rebounded upon itself, sending it hurtling in the other direction, continuing its traversal through the air.

Right back to its sender.

The grenade burst apart before Roahn's eyes. Within her visor, it was as if the sun had begun to crack open a block of sea ice from the core. Metal and fire brimmed in a delicate drop of light, tendrils of liquid fuel connecting all the pieces together before it finally caught ablaze. There was a clap like thunder and immediately the lightning to blind her.

With a scream, Roahn snapped out of her paralysis and dove for cover as the hellfire rained down upon her in the room. Oily smoke and ash spat from the scattered flames, grasping for precious pockets of oxygen to feed themselves. An alarm in Roahn's helmet began to loudly chirp as her enviro-suit caught fire on her back. Bellowing, half blind and deaf, Roahn rolled onto her back to douse the flames, sending her body through the inferno several times before making it to a spot untouched by the rampaging devastation.

She scrambled away from the incendiary's radius, only now noting that the entire hand of her prosthesis was on fire, having been doused with the fuel of the grenade. Roaring, Roahn began waving her hand around in a panic before calming down enough to deploy a muzzle from her pouch that dispensed a fine stream of halon. The flames that blackened the metallic limb fizzled out instantaneously. Hot chains of sparks continued to stream away from her scorched fingers, the edges of the alloy beginning to glow a burnt orange.

The flames and the smoke now completely choked the room. Aleph was nowhere to be seen. Roahn instinctively reached to her side and withdrew her second pistol. Now her enviro-suit was telling her that her helmet's air filters were becoming so clogged with carbon monoxide that she only had thirty seconds of air left in her suit's reserves. Her breathing now ragged, Roahn scrambled back through the door she had entered on all fours, before her boots finally found purchase and could lead her away from the building.

Gasping and nearly gagging, Roahn's visor was not enough to shield her from the searing glare of the waning sun that hovered over the edges of the valley. Behind her, a tower of thick black smog with a glowing red core pierced the sky in a solid thrust.

"_Stay where you are, Roahn!_" Garrus was continuing to speak. "_We're coming to your position. Just sound off when you have the—_"

In between her shuddering breaths, waves of heat rippling at her back, Roahn was able to see a tall figure stride away from the burning building, past the curvaceous fingers of flame and the elegant streams of smoke. She bent to her knees, slowly gaining her strength back, as she watched the form of Aleph depart. The noxious vapors sliced at the sunlight, flickering it across her eyes. A growl wrenched at her mouth as the pain in her body dissipated in a wash of adrenaline. Eyes fastened into slits, Roahn sprang her pistol free and started to limp through the sickening smog before she gained in speed, soon breaking out into a jog.

She burst out of the other side of the smoke, gun raised and nerves wired. She spun in all directions, trying to catch a glimpse of the hated enemy.

Just behind one of the prefabs, Roahn spied a dark wisp of fabric before it trickled out of sight. Roahn mouthed a curse and took off in pursuit. She rounded the corner as she managed to spot Aleph calmly striding his way towards the entrance of the colony, a marbled archway surrounded by stone that acted as a greeting to the wayward pilgrims. Roahn quickly lined up her sights—Aleph's back was to her and he did not even seem to be interested in her presence anymore. She would make him regret that very much.

Her hands that gripped the pistol could not stop shaking. She tried to align the middle notch of her sight upon the departing form that was Aleph. Roahn's very heartbeat seemed to be spoiling her aim. Her finger kept slipping on the trigger to the point where she had to grip it firmly in her fist—exactly how her father had taught her not to handle it—and levelled off a single shot, the recoil biting back down her wrists.

The singular streak blinked and extinguished as it passed within a foot of Aleph. A clean miss. The enormous figure did not seem to be fazed by the attack as he never broke stride. Unleashing a tormented breath, Roahn shuffled her feet before continuing to follow, teeth now distinctly chattering.

Roahn dashed to the edge of the colony, where Aleph had already begun descending the wide stone steps, the bone-white rock stained with the muddy footprints of the deceased colonists. Bodies of dead turians lined the steps, thick blue blood having dribbled down the snow-colored stone—rivers through dusted mountains. Aleph left indigo footprints in his descent as he stepped over the bodies. He cradled his new prize—the unknown and alien object—against his side carefully, keeping it level so that it would not be jostled. He passed underneath the etched insignia of the primacy upon the fortified wall, darkened glyphs impressed like sunspots. The path at the bottom of the steps led to an open field, wildflowers brimming with soaked hues. A faint breeze sent his cloak flapping behind him, making it appear like he was traveling underwater.

At the top of the steps, Roahn bent her knees and loosed another shot. This bullet ricocheted into one of the steps in front of Aleph, which chipped in a tiny pop of splinters and sparks. Another shot smashed against the wall next to Aleph's head, scratching the face underneath the turian seal. The being did not flinch, as if he was ignoring being shot at. He reached the bottom of the steps without being touched and walked off of the path, his boots now impressing firmly upon fertile soil.

The throbbing sensation in Roahn's chest gripped and pulled at her very being. She quickly hurried down the steps, nearly falling to her feet as she made it to level ground. Her own boots tore up the grass and dirt underneath, trailing a spray of green as she sprinted through the waist-high grass with her quarry in front.

Many meters away, Aleph suddenly halted as he reached a trifecta of boulders, topped by a thin frieze of roughened moss. The sky had deepened to a hellish color, projecting a second sun upon Aleph's helmet. Roahn stopped running as well, tenderly swaying in place as the two lone individuals out on the fields temporarily became the setting.

She raised the pistol for a final time, breath frozen in her throat, fingers slow and fumbling.

Aleph then turned toward her, a haloed ring burning into her vision from the violent reflection of the sun. His stance was docile. Almost curious. He was calm, confident that he was in no danger. Despite the fact that his helmet gave no indication where his eyes were looking, Roahn knew he had her underneath his stare.

The barrel of the pistol wobbled with Aleph invariably coming under its unblinking sight. The nearly seven-foot tall monstrosity exuded no concern, keeping his silent vigil firmly locked upon Roahn, who conversely was nearly paralytic with fright. All Roahn could see, all she could feel, when she stared at Aleph, was her final convalescence. She was a scared little girl, powerless in the face of the approaching tidal wave.

The feelings came back to her in a flash. The shadow of Aleph's specter towering over her on Luna, while she had been bound and injured. His quiet but deathly voice giving the fateful order. Heat and metal tearing through her arm. Her own terrible screams right before she collapsed in her own blood.

On that field, Roahn felt her throat close up. She tried to breathe, but they only came in short and panicked bursts.

Unyielding, Aleph looked away from the quarian, as though he had discarded her very being. At his side, his right hand closed into a fist and a flurry of electricity, a static storm, began to appear out of thin air right in front of the man. Motes of vibrant and pure energy rippled and connected, forming what looked to be a tear in the very air itself. Not sparing Roahn a second thought, the instant the tear seemed to gain a sort of corporeal state, he took a large step and walked right through it.

But he did not emerge on the other side.

Before her very eyes, Roahn could only watch as the tear quickly closed itself up, swallowing the very lingering traces of Aleph and making it seem like he had never set foot on this planet to begin with.

He was gone.

* * *

_Menhir__  
Comm Room_

"You're positive that it was him?" Garrus asked, pacing in front of the viewscreen that was now displaying angles from sixteen different camera feeds that Roahn had managed to pull from the colony. The circular comm room was awash with the vibrant glow of a trillion colors, every little box telling the same story, told in a different fashion.

One of the camera angles in question had been blown up to a larger size for easier viewing. Roahn, the only other person in the room, stood transfixed in front of the image as it had paused on the loping and fuzzy silhouette of Aleph in his march through the colony.

"Without a doubt," she said, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight.

Garrus nervously walked back and forth, trying to pierce the hazy veil that had fallen on the heavily processed image. The security footage was low resolution—for data storage purposes—and it was difficult to make out particular details about Aleph's appearance. Still, the conviction in his subordinate's voice was all he needed to determine that Roahn was adamant about what she saw.

Roahn walked up, fingers trembling and slightly curling as she approached the screen. "See what he's carrying in his arm here? He was taking something from that colony, Garrus. Very much like the times he took items from Earth and Luna. This colony was important to him, they had something that he specifically came for."

"You think you can describe it?" Garrus asked.

The quarian thought for a moment before shaking her head, discouraged. "Not very well. Everything was… hard to remember at the time. All I can recall is that it was more than a foot in height… perhaps a little less than that in width. Black and polished like glass. It looked… almost as if it was made up of inky tendrils. The base of the object had the tendrils spike out like spears in a circle, supporting it. I just wish I got a better look at it."

"I can get in touch with the Hierarchy to see if the colony had reported the object on any official ledgers before they were all massacred," Garrus said. "But I wouldn't be surprised if I don't get any answers from them. I just can't see why an object like that would be designated as a government secret or have any strategic importance—why bring it to a colony if that was the case?"

"You think that someone could have _found_ that thing—whatever it was—on Ratinena?

"Who really knows? I'm just as lost as you are on this one, Roahn."

Roahn grabbed one of the chairs so that she could sit down in front of the displays. Her legs were starting to ache. Garrus, finding kinship with that idea, mimicked Roahn's actions and selected a seat for himself. The two sat in the silence, soundlessly poring over the various feeds, their eyes darting around in their skulls as they scraped the data for clues.

"Run it by me again," Garrus said as he applied a hand to his chin. "You were in the data center when Aleph shows up from a nearby room. You threw an incendiary grenade at him, but he deflects it back without a counterattack. You then chase him through town, shooting at him all the while, but he never once makes any aggressive moves towards you. He _never attacks_ you, Roahn. Why would he do that?"

"No idea," Roahn gritted, throat hoarse. "To humiliate me, maybe? To make me think I'm weak by shrugging off what I throw at him? Or perhaps he just wants to toy with me."

"But what could he have to gain by doing that? If he thought you didn't present a threat to him, what was there to stop him from going after you?"

Roahn could only shake her head again. "I don't know if I'll ever know the answer to that. He left me alive on Luna. He left me alive today. I can't explain it but… when I saw him, he almost seemed… _pleased_. As if he was somehow glad to see me."

Garrus leaned back as he thought for a moment, becoming awash in monochrome hues from the screens. He then tilted his head back towards Roahn. "Yet this guy will murder an entire colony without a second thought, using a weapon that we have no intel for. I think it's fair to say that I don't want you trying to take this guy on by yourself again, Roahn."

"I was only trying to—"

"—this is regardless if you think you can take him or not," Garrus raised a hand. "If Aleph is as dangerous as you say, then you need to stay away from him no matter what. Make no mistake, none of us can take him on alone in any state and now that we know he has a plan of his own that he's enacting, who's to say if we're only helping him along in his objectives?"

Shaken and abashed at her own conduct, Roahn stared at the fragile hail that washed over the fragmented and blurred image of her enemy. Her left hand curled at her side, fearful of receiving another fatal blow to its form.

Very much like its owner, Aleph's image held back its gaze, omniscient to the eyes upon him yet uncaring to the deduction of whatever antagonists waited with baited breath.

Roahn sighed, very much wishing she could curl up in a cold sweat in her room and proclaim without end her vow to never put herself in a position to be within Aleph's presence again.

That lie was too delicate to take hold for even a second in her head.

* * *

_Med Bay_

Sam eyed the angry ring of razed and bruised flesh, gently prodding the inflamed fistula that had taken hold around the bullet's entry wound, the opening scoured clear of blood but still leaking a dark fluid.

"I thought you said you applied medi-gel to the damn thing?" Sam raised his head, arching an eyebrow as he did so.

"I _did_ apply medi-gel!" Skye defended hotly. The woman was on her back, her shirt raised up to just below her chest as she reclined on one of the med bay's two specialized chairs, surrounded by firm and unyielding foam.

Sam gave the wound to Skye's side another poke, producing a hiss from the woman. "Not enough, evidentially," he said. "It didn't clot completely. Luckily for you the bullet didn't hit anything vital, but it looks like an infection has set in. Same thing for the exit wound on the other end, it looks like, though the epidermis is in even worse condition due to the kinetic forces generated by bullets having the tendency to spread when passing through solid masses." He wiped his gloved fingers on a nearby cloth. "The Defenders didn't teach you that _ducking_ was a viable option while in combat?"

"Go fuck yourself, doc," Skye sighed as she locked her eyes to the ceiling. "But if you can give me something to drive away the pain, I would appreciate it."

"Ah, so you insult me and simultaneously ply me for medication? Nice try, Skye. In case you forgot what I just said, your wound's not fatal. The infection isn't either, provided we can get it under control. Nothing a little surgery can't fix."

Skye raised her head, beads of sweat now apparent on her brow. "Can't you just put me out or something?"

"I'm not giving you anesthesia for this," the doctor shook his head. "No, you'll be fine with just an antibiotic. Penicillin should do the trick, seeing as the infection's not at a bad state just yet. I'll numb the skin around the wounds afterward and seal them with stitches. _Then_ I'll give you a final dose of medi-gel to clot it up the whole way."

The woman groaned. "_Gah_, you just want to see me suffer, don't you? A regular Mother Theresa."

Sam had already busied himself in taking a syringe and poking it through the seal of a thin bottle filled with a clear liquid. He took the required dosage and gave the syringe a few thwacks with his finger to ensure there were no air bubbles left. "Contrary to what you may think of me, I'm obligated to see everyone on this ship in tiptop shape. But I do have to give you credit for the Mother Theresa reference. Now _she_ was the posterchild for suffering. I hear the church is thinking about rescinding her sainthood, come to think of it. A bit late, in my opinion, but the church has never been known for their promptness."

He now approached Skye's chair, syringe in one hand and a sterile cloth in the other. "I'm going to need you to turn on your side and pull down your pants a bit to expose part of your thigh. And _don't_ you even think about making a snide remark, I'm not in the mood to hear it."

Skye's lips bulged for a split-second, evidentially resisting the urge to make a dumb jape despite Sam's warning. Eventually, she swallowed the joke back down as she complied with the doctor's order and yanked at the edge of her pants, exposing a swath of skin along her upper leg.

"You're not afraid of needles, right?" Sam asked as he swabbed part of Skye's thigh with the cloth.

"No," Skye admitted as she looked away. "But I wouldn't mind a countdown. It just makes me feel better."

"I can do that," Sam nodded as he pinched the skin and positioned the syringe. "On the count of three. One…"

Sam then jabbed the syringe into Skye's leg, with two and three never materializing. The woman made a grunt of annoyance but kept still as Sam finished injecting the penicillin into her muscle strand.

"You asshole," Skye grumbled after Sam had withdrawn the syringe.

Sam gave a light chuckle, ignoring the glare from Skye. "It hurts less if you're not expecting it."

"I wonder if you'll still proclaim that after I punch you in the throat."

"_Excuse me_, princess. I'm the only guy on this boat that can fix you back up. Hurting me isn't going to help your case all that much."

Skye clearly did not relish this fact, as she found the older doctor to be quite unsympathetic and a bit of a smartass. Unfortunate, as these were qualities the woman knew that she also possessed, but Sam's experience in utilizing them was far greater than her own, rendering her more susceptible to annoyance at his expense.

"You really do have the worst bedside manner," Skye sighed.

"I'm aware of that," Sam glibly acknowledged. "You can jot that down for my next performance review. Now shut up and let me do my work."

Sam now took a seat next to where Skye was lying and took a gigantic swipe through the air with his arm. A curved holo-panel appeared over his lap and he settled into it with an acute disposition. His fingers danced across the haptic surface, sending commands to the medical suite embedded in the chair. Rings of curved white glass the color of thick cream sprang forward on rails at the sides of the chair, as if they were about to lightly coil Skye where she lay. Sam began humming a tune that the woman could not quite place, but it appeared to her that the doctor had a very good recollection of the ditty, whatever it was.

From the rings that appeared to hover over Skye's body, delicate metal instruments dropped from the housing—tiny arms capped with microscopic tools that glittered painfully in the bright sterile light. One of the instruments looked to be a tiny tube—from Sam's commands, it dropped down to the entry wound and began squirting out a thick salve. Skye felt her skin begin to numb wherever the salve smeared against it. She lay in place peacefully while the machine repeated the process against the exit wound, ridding her of the faint burning sensations from her ragged flesh.

"Any chance this thing can cut down on the scarring?" Skye asked.

Sam guffawed at that. "You joking? I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker, lady. You want plastic surgery, you're going to have to pay for it elsewhere out of your own pocket."

"Well, at least I asked."

The instruments applied the numbing cream to the wound on Skye's back, retracting to make way for the scissor-like stitching tool that moved in to take its place. The thin arm moved in and gently punctured the skin with a thin metal tip, starting in a series of essays that saw the length of surgical cable slide through the poked skin while the medical suite pulled the jumbled flesh back together.

Sam doubled-tapped a control on his holo-panel and slowly stood up, the medical tools now operating of their own accord, no longer relying on his inputs. "Shouldn't be too much longer," he estimated. "Five minutes, give or take."

"Good," Skye yawned, not aggrieved at all by the stitches the machine was performing on her. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You said you're married, right?"

The doctor turned towards the woman, unsure where this was going. "I did, yes."

Dreamily, Skye looked beyond the walls of the med bay, as if she was hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars. "When did you know that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with your wife? Was it something that came to you immediately or did it take some time?"

Now understanding, Sam took the seat in the direction that Skye was lying and crossed his legs while he steepled his fingers. "Relationship troubles?"

Skye shrugged as much as her position would allow. "You could say that." She then took a furtive glance towards the entrance before she was sure that no one else was within earshot. "Can you keep a secret, doc?"

"Patient-doctor confidentiality _is_ something that I pride myself in, you know."

"Well… you could also say that the commander and I… we… we used to be an item."

If Skye expected this to surface a reaction from the doctor, she would be in for a surprise as Sam's expression was impenetrable. "You mean you and Roahn?" he asked. "Yeah, I know."

"Huh?! You already know?" Skye nearly sat up from the bench but she remembered that there were stitches that were still being inserted into her body so she kept stiff at the last second. "But… who told you? Did Roahn?"

"No one told me," Sam scrunched up his face like the question had offended him. "Except _you_, just now. But I already knew beforehand. You haven't been really subtle when I've been seeing you constantly trying to insert yourself into the commander's presence. And by constantly I mean _all the damn time_. It's pretty freaking noticeable, you moron."

"Oh…" was all Skye could say.

"Which is the reason why you asked me about my marriage, I take it?" Sam noted. "You wanted to hear how a curmudgeon like me has somehow managed to make a relationship work between me and another living person with a heartbeat, yes?"

Skye pulled a shaky grin. "Well, when you put it like that…"

Sam squinted his eyes. "That's what I thought. But to give you an answer, since you asked so nicely, is that there just seemed to be a point in my life… like a sort of mind-altering event… in which every future that I envisioned for myself, my wife was always in them. This wasn't an immediate conclusion I came to—it slowly developed and built up over time. But when the answer finally clicked in my head, I only felt idiotic for not realizing sooner that I wanted to marry that woman. For the people who come to this realization, Skye, they all process it differently. Sometimes it might seem like the most apparent thing in the world to them. Other times it might not be obvious until they travel well down that road. You… uh… you trying to figure out how to rekindle things between you and the commander?"

The woman gave a one-shoulder shrug, not at all an easy thing to do when lying on her side. "That wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"Too much history between you guys to make a clean seam?"

Skye raised an eyebrow. "You prying, Sam?"

Sam's bearded face slowly rose in a smile. He also lifted his hand for mock emphasis. "Patient-doctor confidentiality, remember? Besides, you approached this topic first."

"What I will tell you," Skye said, "is that while I haven't yet come to the same sort of realization that you did yet, I seem to be eternally balanced on that precipice. I mean, I thought I was the luckiest person in the world when I met Roahn. Here was someone sharp as a whip, a kind soul, and immensely talented at anything she set her heart to. How could anyone not be attracted to that? Shit, I liked her right off the bat for who she was. I loved her because she allowed me to get close to her. We had something wonderful together and I… I admit, I fucked it all up."

"Hence the frostiness between you two."

"I betrayed her trust. I can't deny what happened. Yet all I want is for her to understand that I am trying to atone for my mistake. I've never tried to push her away from me." She then tilted her head upward, eyes watching the doctor. "You think it's too late for me and her to do something with our lives together?"

The mechanical arms of the medical suite froze abruptly, the stitches having been completed. Snipping the thread with a set of tiny scissors, the arms retreated back into the angelic circles rimming the bench, the entire contraption soon retracting upwards to allow Skye room to maneuver, but not before a tiny nozzle rose from one of the armrests and sprayed the healing wounds with a thin layer of medi-gel, promoting rapid cellular regeneration. Only a small tangle of knobby scar tissue was left behind in razor-thin lightning branches.

Sam was staring off into the distance thoughtfully, considering Skye's question. "To that, I don't think I can give you an accurate answer. I'm not a counselor for this sort of thing. I can only use my own experiences to draw parallels."

"That would be a start," Skye said as she slowly sat up, drooping her shirt back over her stomach.

"There's a quote that has resonated with me that I like to call back to from time to time: 'It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose.' You could do all the right things to put yourself back in Roahn's good graces, but it might not get you the result you want. Even people in love have fights—god knows I've had plenty of those with my wife—but that only stresses the matter further that you shouldn't expect a utopia in your future. People are messy, Skye, and that's sort of the point. But I will say this: do not worry about how your flaws define you, find out how to negate them as best as you can and that will make all the difference."

Skye snuggled against the chair, ponderous and serene. She accepted the doctor's wisdom with a respectful moment delegated to the quietus. It was as if she was rapidly flashing back to all of the moments in her life when she had said the wrong thing, made the wrong move, or had done anything that had been completely within her power to correct and had summarily not done so.

She then looked to Sam, a smirk now causing her mouth to appear crooked. "So when are you going to _negate_ your taste in shitty music, Sam?"

The doctor visibly slumped in his seat, exasperated. "Lost cause, I'm afraid," Sam said flatly. "Besides, my marriage is not contingent on my supposedly poor choice in entertainment."

"Eh, figured it was worth a shot."

"You hardly tried," Sam pointed out as he rose from the chair. Skye too tried to sit up but Sam reached over and firmly pushed her into the chair. "You've got half a day of bed-rest to fully heal. You're not going anywhere until then."

"Oh come on, doc!" Skye protested hotly. "I'm fine! You can't just keep me—"

"Half a day," Sam raised a singular finger and pointed it at the marine, "or I won't give you any medical clearance for future missions."

"You can't do that!" Skye raged, speaking before she took the time to consider what she was actually saying.

Sam raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. "You are certainly welcome to try me."

Skye looked to the exit and then to Sam and back and forth again. She flopped onto the bed with a groan of despair, admitting defeat. "And just when I thought you weren't such a sourpuss…"

"And risk harming my reputation?" Sam joked as he grabbed a wool blanket from one of the overhead cabinets. Unfurling the red covering, he tossed it over to Skye, upon which it landed over her lower extremities in a curled heap, causing the woman to shoot him a glare. "Nah, that's just a flaw that brings me amusement. And as long as I can make myself laugh, that flaw is staying with me."

* * *

**A/N: More and more action is slowly creeping its way into the fold, now that we've gotten the broad character introductions taken care of (for the most part). There are still many more worlds for Roahn to travel to figure out Aleph's master plan, and many more battles to withstand beyond the horizon.**

**Also, RedCenturionG has just started to get back into a regular schedule concerning his newest story _Equilibrium: Crusader_. For those of you that are seeking a postwar story where Tali is still ALIVE (I regret nothing!) and is with Shepard then you should definitely take a look at it. He's just started to get into the meat of the action in his story and is sure to come up with several twists that will wrench your guts out. It's got fluff. It's got drama. More importantly... it's got grammar. Check it out and send him over a few reviews when you get the chance.**

**Playlist:**

**Zero Sum Clash**  
**"X-HD"**  
**Hans Zimmer and Andy Page**  
**Xperiments from Dark Phoenix**

**Aleph Speaks/Roahn Chases**  
**"Piccadilly Circus"**  
**Sarah Schachner**  
**Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Sam and Skye's Moment**  
**"Aughra Awakes"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (Soundtrack from the Netflix Series)**


	14. Chapter 14: Approaching Contamination

**A/N: As a heads up, some of the content in this chapter might be disturbing for some readers. Please use discretion when reading.**

* * *

"_Thermal clips in the galaxy now are meant to be ejected after overheating instead of waiting for a cooldown. This means instead of having a theoretically infinite supply of ammunition, you are now limited based on the size of the clip and how much heat each weapon uses per shot._

_Don't ask how this entire policy was enacted within two years galaxy-wide."_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_Citadel__  
RosenBar_

The interior of RosenBar was a literal contradiction. Discordant furnishings had been applied wherever the owner had seen fit, from candelabra to hologram, to set dim spheres of light to the otherwise oily darkness that settled within the bar's interior like fluid. Gigantic purple dragons in Oriental stylings moved about the display walls, breathing motes of flame from its nostrils while harlequin shapes danced in exotic and altogether contravening styles. Music from all genres tumbled out from hidden speakers in the walls and in the chairs, creating an atmosphere of complete randomness. Turbulence was the name of the game here and going with the flow was billeted as a requirement for getting the maximum effect from the establishment.

RosenBar was a newfangled bar that somehow drew a wide crowd from people—mostly youths—who appreciated its aesthetic of unconformity. It was a place for people with alternative modes of dress could congregate and share their like-mindedness. James knew that he certainly did not belong to the clientele of RosenBar, but the bartender made a mean Penicillin, which was hard to come by on this station. As a result, he tolerated the atmosphere, despite its disposition to cause headaches from long exposures.

It was still working hours on the Citadel, which meant that he and Jack comprised two of the five patrons utilizing RosenBar's services (the bartender not being included). That thankfully meant that the bar's craziness was tampered down to a conversationalist level. The other three—locals, perhaps—sat sagged at the bar, quietly downing their sorrows. James and Jack had grabbed one of the booths in the corner, giving them a needed aura of complete and utter aloneness. According to James' chronometer, it would still be at least a couple of hours before the offices on the Citadel would let out their employees for the day, which was when the place would come alive. They still had time to enjoy the solitude while it lasted.

Besides, this was the time of day when drinks were half off.

James downed his fourth beer of the afternoon and set the drained bottle to mingle with its similarly emptied fellows. A passing waitress noticed this and came back with another opened bottle for him to enjoy. Jack, on the other hand, had been steadily consuming shots of high-proof tequila for the past thirty minutes. About a quarter of Jack's bottle remained.

Tapping the sides of the browned glass bottle while watching Jack take down another shot, James squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, peeling his back from the vinyl cushions. The biotic set her glass down, raising an eyebrow in response. The woman did not seem to be intoxicated one iota while James had been feeling a steady buzz midway through his third beer.

Jack's eyes shifted from James' to her mostly consumed liquor container before flicking back upwards. She sloshed the contents back and forth after she poured herself a couple more fingers, understanding where the marine's attention had been directed. "I know what you're thinking and no, I _still_ don't feel anything."

James shrugged in deflection. "That obvious? I _actually_ wasn't going to inquire."

"You've seen me chug an entire flagon of vodka at Shepard's party without as much as a wobble, muscles. You really want to know how much it takes to get me drunk?"

James gave another shrug, either not knowing where to start with his guess or deducing that any theorizing on his end would be totally off the mark and thus not even worth the effort.

Jack gave a toothy smile. "When I figure that out, you'll be the first to know."

The marine tilted his head in acceptance, taking a swig of the brown liquid in his bottle as his way of ending the conversation thread. He shifted his eyes to the entrance to observe some wayward soul wandering in to search for a way to get drunk, returning his attention to the woman seated across the table from him.

The biotic side-eyed the bar to her left, taking note of the brightened hemisphere of liquor arranged in mighty stacks and filled with vibrant liquids that spanned the gamut of the color spectrum. She then took the bottle of tequila in a hand and upended its contents down her gullet in two large swallows. She smacked her lips heartily, taking one slow blink as the hammer of alcohol walloped the back of her eyelids, but she recovered quickly with a smirk. James was trying to hide his impressed reaction, but was not doing a good job.

Jack fiddled with her empty shot glass as the music went up a notch in volume over their heads. "For someone who was just suspended from duty, you seem to be in better spirits than I expected."

That caused James to take another hearty draught from his bottle, perhaps as a way to desperately seek a smooth line that would allay his concerns. "The 'good' admiral technically never gave me a timeframe to return to Berlin. I know I have to face the music down there on Earth at some point, but I'll be damned if I'm going to go at their pace."

"A little malicious compliance, eh?"

"Something like that," James nodded. "Just another lesson for me to learn. Subtlety was never my strong suit."

"Common ground," Jack raised her empty glass in a mock salute, drawing a dry chuckle from James. "And this isn't something you should beat yourself up over. Who knew that Phoria was going to rat you out to Huston?"

"_We_ should've known," James sighed. "_I _should've known. Phoria's in league with the Alliance now. Why should she not have told Huston what I did? I guess I foolishly thought that by intimating my suspicions about her company would keep her quiet. Guess she was a whole lot bolder than I figured."

"Craftier, you mean. She strikes me as the type to stomp down on your neck when you've exposed it."

"Can't argue with that," James breathed out. "Wonder if this'll be the straw that either breaks the camel's back for me. Best case scenario, Huston will bust me back down to Lieutenant. Worst case, a discharge."

"Come on, marine," Jack shoved her drained carafe to the side. "Things aren't going to go that badly for you. You really think that the Alliance can get away with shoving someone like you out?"

"Why not? They tried it out on the commander once. Worked too, for a few months."

"But once the shit hit the fan the Alliance had no choice to reverse their decision, right?"

Behind the counter, the barman seized a bottle and cracked the top for a young, laughing couple clearly absorbed with enjoying life. The champagne cork whined off into the darkness into the ceiling like a bullet. Golden bubbles fizzed from crystal flutes, bouncing to the tune of the music.

"Exactly," James said. "Only problem I have is that we don't have a Reaper-level threat on the horizon, not to mention that I'm nowhere close to Shepard's caliber of importance in… whatever you want to call this so-called conflict, proxy war, whatever."

The waitress returned and asked if she could re-up any of their drinks. Both James and Jack looked at each other and politely declined, each feeling the subtle pull of soberness striving to make itself apparent at this moment. The waitress ended up leaving with the empty bottles, clearing the table a bit.

"You're a good soldier," Jack assured as she folded her hands atop the table. "The Alliance would be have to be fucking braindead to do away with someone like you."

James reared his head back as he smiled sadly, leaning casually back against the seat of the booth. "So now _you're_ my cheerleader?"

Jack flattened her face. "If only to help you stop with all the self-deprecation. I don't throw pity parties."

"How supportive of you."

"You don't want to use me as a shoulder to cry on, Vega. People like having me around because I can toss a krogan through the air, not because I can provide a reassuring word. Suffice to say that emotional heart-to-hearts just ain't something I can get the hang of."

"So you're saying that I can't get any sympathy from you?" James tilted his head.

Jack spread her hands as she looked away. "Vega, I'm here now. Isn't this sympathy enough? Fact of the matter is that we hit a dead end on this thing. We made the wrong choice, said the wrong thing, who knows? Is this really the point when we're going to stop?"

"The fact of the matter is that I'm right back at the same conclusion that I've been mulling over for months, Jack. The Alliance no longer has any use for me. I'm the obsolete model headed for the scrap heap. Even when I did try to do something earnestly, when I tried to do something that I thought was right—following up on all this CytoSystems crap—I get shot down for it. Halted in my tracks." He looked at Jack, allowing a few moments before continuing. "Makes me wonder if this whole thing that we did was a waste of time. If it was just my paranoia clouding my judgment. I don't know if I was just eager to imagine that there is a conspiracy out there because deep down I wanted to be relevant again or… or…"

"Hey," Jack interrupted as she leaned across the table to take the marine's massive paw in her comparatively diminutive hand. Heavily tattooed skin mingled with callused and sun-tanned hues. Only the first three letters of the word "DEATH" on Jack's knuckles could be seen from where James was sitting. "If this was paranoia, then it should have been more difficult for me to see your point of view. But it wasn't because I also saw what you saw. Trust me, that's not you being crazy."

James' smile became lopsided as he lolled his head onto the cushions of the booth, ignoring the army of diamonds projected on the walls that came tumbling past in a sparkling hail. "Doesn't matter, though."

"Did you really just say that to me?"

"I did, because there's nothing we can do at this point. Paranoid or not, we're just going to have to accept this as the new normality. Might as well order another round to share, Jack. We've been circling the drain for a long time and only now has our luck ran out."

Jack opened her mouth to issue another point towards the despondent man, but this never materialized because the marine's omni-tool suddenly went off with a ring that startled the both of them. They released their hands in a panic and James appraised the flashing indicator on the back of his hand with a delicate curiosity.

"You going to answer that?" Jack asked after James spent three long seconds just engrossed with his blinking tool.

"I don't recognize the number," he replied.

"Then it's probably not Admiral Huston wanting to berate you again," Jack urged. "Just go ahead and get it over with. How bad could it possibly be?"

_Now that you've said it out loud… _James almost sighed. A bit unsure at the number of unknowns stemming from this interaction, there was still a bit of a delay on James' part before he finally connected the link between the two speakers. But he eventually _did_ connect it, and when that happened, little did he realize that he would be in for the shock of his life.

"James Vega," he answered in his usual brusque tone to start.

"_Captain Vega?_" a mildly accented voice burst through. "_Thank the Ancestors. I don't have much time_."

"Wait," James sat up in his seat, rocking the table with a solid thump and causing his nearly full beer bottle to clatter precariously in its place, sending a ring of foam over the surface. He _recognized_ this voice. "Wait… _Phoria?!_"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack mouth an expletive of shock.

_Yeah, no kidding, _he thought.

"_Please listen, capta_in," the quarian quickly urged on the other end. James realized, just by the tone of her voice, that she was scared. "_They're coming to kill me. I beg you, I need your help._"

"Hold on," James had to speak over the woman. "Slow down, slow down. Who is coming to kill you? Where are you right now?"

"_No time for questions! I'm in my office, where we last spoke. Armed men have congregated just outside the building. I can stall them for a few minutes, but they'll be coming up shortly. Please. Please. Save me."_

And with that, the line disconnected.

James and Jack stared at each other in a moment of sheer confusion. They had been so caught off guard that neither of them thought to comment on the coincidence of Phoria's timing. Any despondency that had been harbored within them drained in a rush, leaving nothing but a firm force of will.

"Think it might be a trap?" Jack asked, but both of them were in the process of extricating themselves from the booth at any rate.

"Rather elaborate for a set-up, if it was one," James figured as he double-tapped the display on the edge of the table, closing out his tab.

"Well, she sounded scared shitless. Either she's a really good actor or she genuinely thinks that someone's trying to have her killed."

As suspicious as he was, James knew better to look a gift horse in the mouth, despite the urge to do so. He had to admit the whole thing absolutely reeked of shadow craft. Phoria had said that armed men were on the premises. Who could that entail? A PMC? A government kill squad? Clearly it had been significant enough for Phoria to reach out to James, of all people, for help. The very man she had tattled on to Admiral Huston.

Now she was asking for his assistance. What fresh hell had turned everything topsy-turvy for _this_ eventuality to transpire?

But, he realized, it was what he had represented to Phoria that had probably been the catalyst for her calling him in the first place. He had put up a firm front when conversing with her earlier—specifically, he had insinuated that there had been something sinister going on with the quarian's company and he had made sure that she knew that he knew. But he had also revealed that he did not tip his hand out of malice or for any form of blackmail. Quite the opposite, actually. To Phoria, he was her lifeline. Unintentionally, he had signaled to Phoria that he was an escape route for her in case her so-called handlers wanted her out of the equation all from his sympathetic act.

Apparently that day had come calling.

"Got a sidearm on you?" James asked as they began to hastily depart the bar.

Jack patted the weapon at her side. "It's got a few clips in it. Got anything heavier?"

James shook his head. "All my armor and rifles are back on the ship. No time to fetch them."

"Fuck," Jack groused as the two of them exited the establishment and bustled over to the taxi cab, nearly sprinting to call a skycar. "We really should have brought shotguns with us."

* * *

Fortunately, the bar had been within a stone's throw from the CytoSystems headquarters, so the flight itself had been completed in short order. James and Jack practically sprang from the vehicle as soon as it had touched down upon the landing circle, and they kept their hands on their weapons without having them fully withdrawn. Ascending the shallow marble steps gave them an odd sense of déjà vu, not surprising considering that they had just been here hours earlier. The simulated sun now splashed in a vibrant wildfire orange color upon the windows of the twin spires, slathering the ground down below with its light.

The first indication that something was amiss was that a military grade Kodiak had been parked near the main lobby entrance. The craft was all black, no logos, and was clearly not a civilian model. Looked like Phoria had not been lying about a group of unsavory fellows in the vicinity. Time to see if her words held any more merit.

"Heads on a swivel," James said out of habit. Jack gave a grunt of confirmation next to him.

They stormed their way past the doors, keeping an eye out for any armed individuals occupying the lobby beyond. But other than that, there was barely anyone around except a rather shaken receptionist with a far-away look in her eyes. Something had clearly spooked her.

The receptionist, her reactions heavily delayed, then seemed to notice James and Jack entering and began to stammer out something, perhaps a greeting or a request to stay put for a while, but James held up a hand and adopted a cheery disposition.

"Left something back in the office," he acted like he knew what he was talking about. "Won't be more than a minute."

Leaving the frazzled receptionist behind, the two quickly headed over to the elevator bay and towards the lift that would take them up to the top floor. As they rounded the corner, they were able to spot the fleeting glimpse of a man, decked out in glossy black combat armor, walk into the elevator that they were going to use. James and Jack, both on the same wavelength, jogged over to the open doors and skirted in before they could close without even thinking of the consequences.

Only now did they realize what they had gotten themselves into. The elevator was packed with five armed and armored soldiers, all dressed in the same nondescript and bulky armor. Faceless helmets covered their expressions, slightly distorting their voices as they grumbled amongst each other about having to share the lift with the two. Weapons of all makes and models lay slung upon their backs or tightly strapped to their legs. Leather ammo belts, pristine and new, wrapped around the waists or chests of the soldiers, bulging at the seams from being stuffed with spare thermal clips.

There was no room to maneuver in the tiny space without brushing up against a hard jutting piece of armor. James felt like he was a sardine in here, not to mention there was an encroaching feeling of dread as he took stock of the fact that he was essentially trapped in here with five soldiers that were completely prepared for combat. There was a buzzing feeling at the back of his neck.

The ground was dropping away out the window behind them as the lift rapidly ascended. James recalled it took nearly a minute to reach the top. He started to count down the seconds in his head. He tried to keep his breathing level, for fear of arousing suspicion. There was no reason to antagonize these soldiers yet—far as he had seen, they had not technically done anything wrong.

Not yet, at least.

Keeping himself as nonchalant as possible, James rotated his body so that he could side-eye the soldier next to him. Nothing about these guys was particularly unique at first glance. The assault rifles they used were a cut above standard-issue weapons, but they were still ubiquitous enough to not raise any eyebrows. The armor itself, although blacked out and demonic, was not of a configuration that the marine had not seen before. The only thing that caught his eye was a tiny patch upon the middle of the armored shoulders: an eagle's eye with a crescent moon nestled in the socket.

Alliance special forces, no doubt about it.

Rotating his head back over to Jack, James raised his eyebrows a millimeter. He then pretended to look at the elevator panel before turning over to the nearest soldier. He intentionally fumbled at the floor buttons before flashing a sheepish smile at the man. "Were you heading to the same floor? Forgot to ask after we jumped in. Apologies."

"Top floor is fine," the soldier brusquely replied, obviously not interested in carrying out a conversation with James.

"Ah, a meeting with the boss lady, eh? Fancy. You know, if you haven't talked with her before, she really likes to go by '_Madam_.' Just for future reference."

"We'll keep that in mind." The response was still terse. James clearly had not made any headway along this tack.

But the marine was not deterred so easily. "You boys are packing a lot of ordinance. Navy looking to turn some heads with the show you're putting on? Giving the subcontractors a display—a template that they should aspire to be?"

"You know how it is," the soldier chuckled, finally opening up. "The brass wants to rattle their sabers from time to time. We're only too happy to oblige if it means we can step out with the toys."

The rest of the armored squad laughed, as if on cue. James tried not to feel too intimidated.

The soldier then stepped closer to James, his helmet tipping downward. "Didn't think they'd send _you_ along, sir. Wasn't told we'd be having an escort."

James wondered if he would have been recognized in the elevator. Not that he felt that he was a particularly distinctive person, but it always felt weird when he was singled out in particular just because he had been part of the _Normandy_ crew.

"That's funny," James said as he now turned completely around to face the man, Jack doing the same next to him with the closest soldier in her proximity. "Coming here, I didn't think that I'd be running into you, either."

The helmet tilted. Obvious confusion. "You're not in the loop on this, are you, sir?"

"Depends," James now smiled. "That _is_ a lot of toys for just one quarian."

The elevator went dead quiet. All that was apparent was the soft humming and the occasional whoosh as each floor dropped away. The dark squad of five was clearly partitioned against the two irregularly dressed humans in the tight quarters.

James tightly smirked as he tightened his knuckles. "If you want to go ahead, go ahead."

There was a moment of hesitation and then the blacked out soldier began to raise his weapon quickly with a shuddering intake of breath. But James was at point-blank range and an assault rifle was pathetically inept at such close distances—close enough that James could reach out and touch them. Which was exactly what he did.

James, faster on the draw, slammed a hand down on the top of the rifle as the soldier was bringing it to bear. That shunted it downward at the exact same time the man clenched his finger upon the trigger. The interior of the lift exploded in noise, searing burn marks into James' eyes and filling his tongue with a sour taste. The bullets from the rifle, now aimed downward, shredded the soldier's feet and he collapsed with a cry, leaving sticky red trails smeared all over the glass.

The echoes of the dying crash were consumed by the torrent that ensured as pandemonium erupted within the elevator.

Jack, moving at nearly the same time, slammed her hand smack-dab in the middle of the closest SpecOps soldier's throat in a chopping motion, causing him to drop his rifle as he started to gag. She then withdrew her pistol and sent two bullets into his ribcage. He fell with a gurgle. Next, she quickly summoned a void of biotic energy that glowed around her fist like a luminescent glove. Before anyone could stop her, she shunted out her hand and levelled a wall of force at the next soldier in line. Carried aloft by the push, the soldier had only a split-second to scream in panic before his back impacted against the wall of the elevator. The thick glass cracked in massive spiderwebs, but it held while the soldier, teetering on the edge of consciousness with massive internal injuries, slumped to the floor.

James had no time to reach for his pistol. He dove for the next soldier in the lift, grasping his hands upon this man's weapon. The SpecOps soldier howled as he tried to fire at James, but their combined grappling merely sent the barrel of the rifle waving upward into the air. The gun screamed as it spat fire and red-hot metal, denting the ceiling and sending down shards of plastic and glass as each report brutally violated the air around them both. The light fixture shattered and dropped down to dangle around their heads, creating a loud electronic roar.

The solider tried to wrench the rifle out of James' hands, but the marine was stronger. James nearly let go to deliver a massive punch, but realized at the last second that there was nowhere for his fist to land without him breaking every bone in his hand from landing upon solid armor. Instead, he started fiercely kicking at the legs of the soldier's, delivering a victorious cry when he slammed his heel down onto the soldier's knee, bending it awkwardly with a horrid pop and completely destroying the kneecap. The soldier cried out in pain, his grip on his own weapon weakening just enough for James to slam the grip into the man's chin, knocking him out cold.

Breathing hard, James started to turn to deal with the last soldier, but there was a sizzling noise in the air and James completely seized up as his muscles pulsated in agonizing wrenches. He yelled and saw that the final soldier was shoving a shock stick against his ribs, the end of the metallic cylinder crackling and rimmed with white electric bolts. He sagged against the side of the elevator, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. His voice gave out, but his lips mouthed a wordless plea.

The soldier was in the midst of delivering a curse when all of a sudden the stout barrel of a pistol entered the frame and pressed against his helmet's right temple. There was no time to take stock of the situation, no threats to be delivered, because the pistol immediately fired, sending a spray of blood, plastic, and gore spewing out the other end of the helmet, where a shockingly large hole now loomed.

James slumped in relief, breathing hard, as he now saw Jack lower her arm, the pistol not even hot enough to slightly smoke. He gave a tired nod in thanks and took a few needed breaths before bending over and plucking up a rifle from the ground. Now he had a little extra firepower.

"Still think Phoria's lying?" James muttered after rubbing the spot on his side where the shock stick had landed.

Jack gave a one-shoulder shrug as she too swapped her sidearm for a conquered rifle. "I'm beginning to see her point of view."

The elevator had casually reached the top floor, seemingly unaware of the horrors that had went on within it. The doors opened to reveal two guards flanking the entrance, also clueless as to the goings-on of their comrades. Naturally, when they had heard the chime of the lift and the subtle swish of the opening doors, they turned where they stood, expecting to see five similarly armored men walk out without incident. What they were not expecting was to see the bodies of those men line the floor of the elevator, with two intensely focused individuals standing over them with raised weapons.

The anterior room of the office resounded with clamor as James and Jack each felled one trooper from where they stood. Armor shards tumbled into tiny crimson pools and the downed soldiers expired upon cold tile, blankly staring overhead at a walnut ceiling as their final breaths waned.

They moved inside from the elevator, able to witness the curve of the station part the frigid void of dark space past the conference room's massive window. From a side hall, an imposing figure decked in a bulky set of N7 Defender armor, colored a warm scotch, stepped out into view. They touted a precision-crafted shotgun and wore a Death Mask helmet that covered their entire head. Two downward slanting embers made up the eyes of the helmet while a flat gray arrowhead acted as the helmet's vocabulator. The soldier aimed their weapon calmly, blocking the entirety of the hallway.

"This is N7 Lieutenant Colonel Lee Riley, Alliance Task Force 45," the soldier spoke, her voice low and powerful. "Stay where you are and drop your weapon, Captain Vega. Same for you, Jack. I don't want to have to put you down."

Riley. The name threw James for a second. He was able to recall just vague glimpses about the woman across from him—holding the line in the fuel depots on Cyone during the war. A talented engineer and a reliable soldier. What the hell was she doing here?

"Can't comply with that, Riley," James said apologetically, keeping his weapon trained at Riley's center of mass. "I need the quarian alive. Leave while you still can and forget you ever saw us."

Riley did not so much as budge an inch. "I won't even humor you as to our standing orders. You have five seconds to throw down your weapons and surrender yourselves into my—"

Jack interrupted the moment, not by punctuating the air with a loud exclamation, but allowing her rifle to make pointed statements in the form of three shots to the head. Riley stumbled backward, her shields flaring agonizingly, but she did not fall. She rotated her axis and opened fire on the biotic with a roar, clouds of molten metal pulverizing air and sound as they ripped waves through the emptiness.

Jack ducked the shots and hurried behind the corner of the hallway while the bullets chewed up the precious almond wood paneling inches from her head, sending out a tornado of splinters in a dirty stream of dust. Riley then pivoted to focus on James, who had also started firing back, but his bullets were also ineffective against the colonel's shields. The combatants surged behind the corners adjacent to the hallway for cover, each breathing heavily. James looked down at his arm and noted a thin line streaming across his bicep—a narrow graze.

"You'll be a wanted man after this, captain," Riley growled as she ejected a spent clip, the heavy object creating a firm death rattle upon the floor. "Your war record won't mean a damn if you survive today. You just killed Alliance marines on a sanctioned op. Think the brass will just let you walk away from this?"

"You and your men are participating in an illegal action," James shouted back as he hugged the wall. "I'm not going to be party to any of this. Besides, the brass were pushing me out first."

The marine then leaned out from his position and sprayed the luxurious corridor with automatic fire. The holographic projectors cracked and sparked fruitlessly as the electronic components were torn apart from the stray fire. Jumbled and schizophrenic images flashed upon the walls from the broken lenses, emitting a bevy of terrifying images that flooded the hall with saturated hues of vivid and pure color, eliciting nightmarish thoughts.

"Do you know what the difference between us is?" Riley asked as she peeked around the corner after the assault had passed, a new object in hand. "I _accept_ the consequences of my actions."

With that, Riley stepped out into view, arm already cocked back, ready to throw the grenade she had just armed.

But James had been ready first. Even quicker, he leaned out of cover and delivered two precise shots that impacted squarely upon Riley's arm. The colonel's shields bent and sizzled, exposing the hexagonal design, but they still held. However, Riley cried out as the sheer kinetic force of the bullets rebounded up her arm, forcing the grenade to slip from her fingers.

"No!" she cried.

The rounded explosive bounced once. Then twice. And then started rolling, the lone red light upon its face blinking sinisterly.

Riley hurled herself to the ground, clawing with her hands to reach the wayward device, but the grenade kept rolling out of reach. The panicked colonel was uttering wordless sounds of panic, her fingers scrambling to catch the grenade and do away with it before it exploded.

"Back!" James shouted at Jack, knowing they had little time. "Get back!"

The armored N7 warrior made one last surge and gave a triumphant laugh as her fingers finally closed around the grenade. But, before she could throw it away, Riley felt herself pinned to the ground as a translucent and warped purple hemisphere two feet in diameter closed around her head and her fist. The biotic barrier shimmered and rippled around the woman's neck, completely closing her off. Trapped, Riley grunted as she struggled to rise, but the immovable force was steadfast. Her entire head was trapped inside the barrier with the grenade.

James looked over at Jack, who was now reaching out with both hands, the tips of her fingers glowing a violet indigo. Her face was pristine, devoid of sweat, as she summoned forth the dark energy that lingered within her cells, manifested and primed to deploy through sheer force of will.

"_Here's_ the difference between us," Jack spat. "In two seconds, _we'll_ still have heads."

"No…" Riley uttered in horror as she could only watch the little red light on the grenade blink faster and faster. She continued to struggle, but Jack's barrier held her in place, right next to the explosive device. "_Oh no, no n—!_"

There was a muffled thump and the vibrant biotic barrier flashed with a lick of flame before it was filled with smoke. The floor shook once and then all was quiet.

Jack screwed up her face, keeping the barrier in place for a few more seconds before she finally lowered her arms. Towers of smoke grew like plant stalks once the biotic dome had dissipated in a patchy grid.

Still remaining sober even in the wake of the savage violence, James proceeded down the hallway, now following Jack's lead. He tried not to look at the charred body of Lieutenant Colonel Riley as he stepped over it, which was now missing a head and most of a right arm. The stumps had been cauterized from the intense heat that had been contained for five very long seconds all within the small volume of the barrier—whatever portions of the body and armor that had been inside the barrier had been roasted a charcoal black, now having a smell akin to burning meat accompanying it. James nearly felt sick to his stomach.

There were no more soldiers guarding the entrance to the conference room. Jack palmed the door and it parted to grant passage. James and Jack crossed the threshold, blinking the light of the sun as it crossed the curvature of the Earth beyond. They became nothing more than embers armatured with the blackened shapes of their weapons in hand. Two more shadows had inhabited the room before their entrance, they quickly noted. One of them was Phoria. The other was a final commando.

With a gun to the quarian's head.

"Back off," the soldier snarled, even as James and Jack took up flanking position. "One more step and you'll be cleaning this bitch's brains off the ceiling."

"Followed by yours if you follow through," Jack warned.

The commando began to back up, pressing himself against the window. James noted that the quarian looked serene behind her snowy visor, her body limp and un-plagued by nerves. Magnetic wisps rose along the curvature of the planet in the distance, curling in mesmerizing glowing threads.

"Let her go," James uttered, his voice quiet but deadly. "We'll let you walk."

"I'll be leaving with nothing."

"Except your life. You going to claim that you have other priorities?"

The gun screwed itself tighter against the side of Phoria's helmet. The quarian gave a frightened gasp and seemed to grow stiff. James edged forward, keeping the reticle of his rifle aimed squarely at the commando's head. He had a shot, it was shaky, but he figured he could pull it off. The problem with situations with unclean shots was that every second was host to a drastically different outcome. A single twitch or a turn of a head could spoil what would be a perfectly good shot. He kept his finger lightly upon the trigger, his breathing slowing to a crawl.

"I've been ordered to kill her," the commando protested. "Failure on my part won't be tolerated."

"You're not getting tolerance on either side of this equation, asshole," Jack groused as she too slowly circled the conference table. "We don't like her any more than you do, but we'd prefer her to be alive."

The commando sighed. "You don't understand. This isn't my deci—"

The soldier abruptly pitched forward with a yell, the pistol tumbling from his fingers, as James had watched Phoria savagely jerk her left fist back into the man's thigh, who had been hiding something in her hand. The quarian wrenched her arm forward and now James saw the bloody knife point clenched in her suited hand, previously obscured from the commando. The man's leg quickly grew dark and slick and he wobbled in place.

But the quarian was not finished.

As James and Jack stood slack-jawed, Phoria turned on the spot and, with a rapid motion, brought the knife up to the commando's neck and made a long cutting motion that extended the full range of her arm.

A gout of blood sprayed against the window in a blindingly red arc. Gore splattered the glass in thick rivulets, spattered in tender dots or flowing in wide deltas. The commando's last noises were of a pathetic whistling from his slashed throat and Phoria let him drop to the floor without a second glance. She stood over the body, knife still in hand, breathing tenderly as her shoulders started to tremble, a silent reaper observing the birth of a new day with the sun shearing off her visor, exposing the pale glint of her nose to the remaining humans in the room.

To James, Phoria turned, her disposition becoming oddly warm. "Your timing needs improvement, but I can't argue with the results."

"Phoria," James breathed as he made a show of shouldering his rifle and raising his hands gently. "I'm going to need you to put down the knife before we do anything else."

The quarian fiddled with the bloodstained weapon idly, as if she was intent on making the hardened marine nervous. "Worried I might _cut_ someone with it, captain?"

"_Phoria_."

There was a definite effort on Phoria's part in which she weighed her options, taking the barest sliver of delight in dangling the last finite thread of control between her fingertips. However, sanity took control and she blinked, her entire posture relaxing.

"It's done," the quarian said quickly as she tossed the blade to the side of the room, a careless gesture. Right away, James surged forward and grabbed the alien by the arm, pulling her away from the body whose throat she had just slit while Jack now covered the way they had come in, keeping the previous hallway underneath the unblinking gaze of her weapon.

James was about to depart back toward the lift when he felt Phoria tug against his grip. He spun his head around, fully expecting to have an earful of venom for his troubles, but was surprised when he came up against the quarian's fearful face now that she had time to take stock of the danger that had nearly transpired unto her.

"You're not really thinking about going back out the way you came?"

"We need to get you somewhere the Alliance won't immediately figure to reach you," James responded, confused for the moment. "Unless you already have an escape route in mind?"

"A secondary lift," Phoria tilted her head in the opposite direction. "Leads to a private hangar. A ship is docked there. We can leave the Citadel in minutes."

"Would it be too much to hope that the ship _isn't_ registered in your name?"

The quarian shook her head. "An alias. Unaffiliated with CytoSystems."

James now backed the quarian up until she was nearly bent over one of the chairs that rimmed the conference table. He brought up a stern finger and raised it an inch away from the glass that separated her face from the free air. "I'll take your advice right now," he whispered. "But once we're in the clear, you are going to tell me all that you know so that I can figure out exactly what the fuck is going on. This is nonnegotiable, understand?"

Phoria's eyes tracked James' finger, looked over to find an unsympathetic ally in Jack, and an uncaring witness in the gore-flecked body of the commando whose life she had just ended when she had nearly decapitated the man.

Still retaining that maddening confidence, Phoria's chest heaved in a sigh but her eyes signaled a hidden vibrancy. "You've held up your end of the bargain, captain. Rest assured, once we secure safe passage, the both of you will be humored."

"_Wonderful_," James said sarcastically as he hauled the quarian straight before pushing her in front, towards the direction she had initially indicated. "Lead the way."

* * *

_Menhir__  
Comm Room_

The crystals in the projector lamps around the room warmed and a circular grid rose up from the floor in a bath of delicate light. Standing in the middle of the virtual dais, Roahn's ankles became submerged as the luminescent puddle rose to meet her. She wandered around the interior of the circular partition, her omni-tool open while she fiddled with an application upon it.

Assembled at the rim of the stage, Garrus and Shepard made a crawling gait around the perimeter as they watched the quarian savagely tap away at her tool. Roahn's visor had been lit up from the campfire glow her tool exuded and also from the electric grid pattern that swarmed down below. It looked like she had activated a virtual display on her HUD. Her eyes shimmered through the panes, laser-focused.

After a bit, Roahn finally looked up and spread her arms as she stepped closer to the edge of the grid. "Figured it was about time that we get a database up and running to document our various missions as Umbra. After all, it would be prudent if we could get everyone up to speed at their own pace as we put our combined experience in one repository."

Garrus followed along with a nod. "So… a codex, in essence?"

"Additions to what we already have on file," Roahn raised a shining metallic finger. "There is no current database that details the complete list of PMCs currently on call right at this moment. No way to figure out which one is operational or defunct. This way, as we get more and more information, we can add additional details to the list of enemy forces—troop and technical strength, zones of operations, even corporate structure. And," she added, her voice taking on a husky rasp, "maybe I can help describe more about… the ones behind it all."

Without wasting any more time, Roahn made a splaying-out gesture with her hands and a basic dashboard blew up several sizes to hover in place within the middle of the room. The visual theme was functional and not at all gussied up to look pretty, which was fine because neither Shepard nor Garrus had much of an eye for aesthetics anyway.

The database that Roahn had provided them with was divided into several sections, functioning as an addendum to the galaxy's latest iteration of the all-encompassing compendium. There were listings for various planets, solar systems, and governmental bodies. One particular section that Roahn had added was for "Private Military Companies," which had a resulting link that sent the user to a complete directory of all of the entities that fit the definition, able to be sorted in a bevy of ways.

"Oh, this is good," Shepard praised as he swiped his hand downward, the screen reacting to his direction by scything the list down as well. "You've already put a few entries onto this list for reference, I see: Bucephalus, Interro, Zero Sum, among others. Yes, this will certainly be valuable for us to reference."

Roahn had to fight to keep herself still after the praise registered. She had heard tales over the years of people's fathers falling into unfortunate categories in which they only registered their child as such and not as an actual adult, or even worse, by being embroiled in abusive relationships that were otherwise traumatizing during their formative years. If she had not had prior context, Roahn would have to concede that she could understand if her father had been more emotionally absent during her childhood—and for a while it did seem like it was going to turn out that way—but Shepard had managed to acknowledge Roahn's own insight to recognize her worth as not only his daughter but as a fellow peer, choosing to grow up alongside her. He was not embarrassing, he never once put her down, and he certainly had never laid a hand upon her when she had been young. He also knew better not to stoke her ego when it was undeserved, which admittedly made moments like these quite satisfying for the quarian.

"Here's the thing," Roahn circled around the floating list, her hands making shapes in the air, "I whipped this up not just for our benefit. This is a database that is meant to be shared with as many people as possible, perhaps other groups that, hopefully, might take up causes similar to ours. It's a public forum for information, to be freely disseminated."

"A weapon for us to use, essentially," Garrus mused.

"'_Mightier than the sword',_" Shepard agreed.

"It's a tool to incentivize accountability," Roahn continued. "And it's also a deterrent. The more information we share, the more insidious these PMCs become to both the public and the private sector."

Shepard paced back and forth in a thoughtful cloud. "In an era where fear and lies have greater clout than the truth, it's important to be able to open a window to the light. I mean, take right now, where we have every single race proceeding at a rapid pace to build their military back up—the construction of hundreds upon hundreds of warships of every class, the mass recruitment of men and women into the ranks—but still, PMCs are being advertised as the solution in the interim. They haven't considered the ramifications of what will happen once the Alliance, the Hierarchy, or anyone else does return to their full strength and the PMCs are still around. These corporations won't vanish overnight, even when things return back to the way they were before the Reaper War. They're what you call 'supplemental troop strength' now. Like it or not, they're considered _essential_ to the war effort, and no matter how many war crimes stack up, no matter how many innocents get killed in the crossfire, these PMCs have government protection and they will fight tooth and nail to keep their contracts and the governments will be lax in responding to their revised needs. We won't win that war, not unless we have all the information we can get on these guys."

Roahn stopped where she was to take control of the presentation, starting by shuddering away the listing while she prepared another application. She took a deep breath in preparation. "We can also share everything we know about the individuals using these conflicts to their advantage." She looked down at her feet for a split-second while her left hand noticeably flexed. "I've… created a few visual profiles to help with that."

The quarian moved up and slowly raised both palms, as if summoning a monster from the deep. From the shimmering and depthless void, four holographic figures rose from the murk, standing tall as sightless eyes and optics stared aimlessly, their postures stiff and unresponsive. Even though she knew that none of the represented figures she had just revealed here were real, Roahn could not help but feel sick to her stomach when she looked at them all, especially the one depicted with the rounded and mirrored helmet.

Looking away, Roahn made a limp gesture with her arm. "I compiled them all from memory. I even added details that was collected from the colony's security cameras."

It was almost as if she was ashamed to have remembered them so clearly.

Faces lined with interest, Shepard and Garrus appraised the collected visages and appearances of the four sinister individuals who had caused the quarian so much pain. Rotating around the Aeronaut, Raucous, and the Cardinal, Garrus finally stopped in front of the enormous figure that Aleph cut. Even in this digital representation, the figure still held a demonic quality.

"We don't have much information to go on about the majority of individuals in this quartet," Shepard said. "Raucous and the Cardinal? They're ghosts. No mention of them at all in any database. Even my old Spectre credentials couldn't turn up anything on them."

The four-legged behemoth that was Raucous still held that animalistic and hungry stare, complete with those sharpened teeth that had bitten Roahn's arm off so messily. The quarian felt at her stump—it would be hard to forget the jagged and clawed exterior, that ridged head and cometfire eyes, triangle chin and carbon fiber belly.

Next to Raucous, the image of the Cardinal floated serenely over everyone, a faceless head projecting a celestial and hypnotic blue light. The helix construction of her abdomen wrapped around a diamond-glass gutsac, horse-like stilts for legs dangling in mid-air like she was being hung from her neck. The spider-arms that twisted behind her back tapped fruitfully against one another, adopting a poise of maliciousness and cunning.

_Keelah, they're disgusting_, Roahn shivered, amazed at her own mind's ability to recall such horrors.

Now Shepard walked in front of the Aeronaut's image, clearly the only organic member of the group. "Now _this_ guy, I did find something on. There's nothing concrete, but the Spectre terminal did turn up several references between our friend—the Aeronaut—here, and a private military company called Dark Horizon. Apparently he could be the leader of this little militant group. The funny thing about Dark Horizon is that it's an incredibly exclusive PMC. They're a small team, accept very few contracts, and are rumored to only be made up of individuals who were at the highest echelons of the armed forces during their regular tours of duty. They could even surpass anything the Alliance throws at them in terms of raw talent, and this guy just might be heading them up."

"At the end of the day, he's just a mercenary," Garrus said as he now gestured to the one in the middle of it all, "working for _him_."

"Aleph," Roahn voiced.

"And if those other two were merely ghosts," Shepard said as he stood just behind his daughter, also staring up at the massive being, "then he's the black hole in the center of the whole thing."

The simulacrum of Aleph stared endlessly, omniscient. Faces of the void flickered in the reproduction of his helmet, eerily confident. A continuous prescience.

"Who the hell is this man?" Garrus asked.

"I don't know," Shepard shook his head. "But more worrying is that we don't know what he wants."

"Peel back the intricacies and you get the simple answer," Roahn growled as she stepped up to the hologram, perhaps in defiance to give herself courage, but found the crushing sensation squeeze ever more tightly around her lungs, sending her nerves abuzz. "We just need to see past the sophistication of the design, that is, if we're not giving Aleph too much credit. Even the Reapers could be understood, right?"

Garrus cleared his throat as he gently led Roahn away by the shoulder, sensing the slight pain that was coursing through the quarian's very body. The great pale dome of Aleph seemed to be boring holes right through Roahn, his helmet shining like a phosphorescent egg.

"The frightful alternative could be that we might not be giving Aleph _enough_ credit," Garrus mused. "He's not just some random thug on the Citadel, nor is he monolithic intelligence drawn on destroying all life. Back at C-Sec, I had a sergeant that used to say to me all the time, '_The smart ones don't gloat about the endgame_.' He was referring to the pattern that the most sadistic criminals he ever came across were not caught because of their braggadocio. The serial killers, the mass rapists, the ones who got away with it for a long time, want to know what they all had in common? They kept quiet about their victims. They hid that part of their lives because they were patient. They had commitment to their task. You see, killing was not some fling for them, an urge that could not be controlled. The ones that were too far gone for justice to rehabilitate, they killed because they thought it was a duty. And a duty like that… it has to be seen through to the end, in their minds. No matter who gets hurt."

Both Garrus and Shepard now flanked Roahn as all three stared up grimly at the assembled quartet of the baneful and featureless horde. Through wide eyes, Roahn felt herself diminish before the picture of the man who had ordered her maiming with a callous word. His indifference still lingered within her still, tauntingly infecting her with its insidious and viral poison.

Her stomach twisted. She felt like she was going to throw up.

* * *

_RRV Sindra__  
En route to Charon Relay_

"Jesus," James muttered as he wandered through the interior of Phoria's private yacht. "So this is what a CEO's salary gets you."

When Phoria had said that she had another ship waiting in the wings in her own private hangar, truth be told, James had been expecting a somewhat stripped down shuttle at the very least. What he had certainly not been prepared for was that Phoria would be leading them to what was, unquestionably, a luxury yacht.

The _Sindra_ was on the smaller size as far as yachts went, but that did not mean that it was not equipped with the latest in tech and comforts. Every seat was draped in the finest leather from London craftsmen. The floor was either polished burgundy Italian tile or mocha shag pile carpet. A sound system by an expert and bespoke electronics manufacturer on Palaven had wired the entire ship from stem to stern. Every room had the ability to be sterilized—the shower took up a full room on its own, also decked with tile. More leather crept up the walls, eliciting a pleasant and rich scent of hide.

"A mining tycoon was looking to upgrade to a bigger yacht," Phoria said as she came up from behind James' back, no doubt smirking as she now had the ability to flaunt her wealth anywhere her guests looked. "Sold this to me for a pittance. Not that it matters much, I have three of the—_what the?!"_

From behind Phoria, Jack had suddenly grabbed hold of the quarian and had savagely shoved her across the room with a little biotic assistance, sending her flying into a nearby couch, puffed close to bursting. Phoria, in a daze, shook her head, eyes in a bewildered shape behind her visor, otherwise unharmed but quite confused as to how she had ended up lying on the couch in a pose unsuitable for someone of her stature.

James whirled to face Jack. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"_Now_ it's time for questions," the woman's face had relaxed into an angular, smoldering rage. She pushed past the marine and raised a fist above the quarian. Phoria whimpered and curled into a ball instinctively, her arms feebly raised in a pathetic effort to ward off the incoming blow.

Instead, Jack lowered her arm and gave a lopsided grin. "Look at you. No hidden knives for you to draw this time. The second things start to fall apart for you, you collapse. In some small way, I'm glad, Phoria. Now _I _get to be the most dangerous bitch in the room."

"Please," Phoria murmured as she attempted to sit back up, but the couch's soft cushioning was making such maneuvers difficult. "I don't want to be hurt."

Jack grabbed one of the nearby chairs from the smooth metal dining table and brought it over, flipping it around so she could straddle it. "Then I don't think you'll object in helping to fill in the blanks." The woman then gave a look to James, a silent assurance that she was in control of the situation. Choosing to go along with her for now, James similarly grabbed a seat, but sat down upon it like a normal person would instead of Jack's aggressive positioning.

However, James decided to take the lead before any more assertiveness from Jack would cause more problems than they needed. "Why was the Alliance trying to kill you?"

Groaning, Phoria finally managed to sit up, unwilling to meet the human's eyes. "Why do you think? It was because of you."

"Us?"

"Yes, you," Phoria's eyes lidded upward angrily. "When you organized your meeting with me. That was what set the whole thing off. They thought I was a liability after that because you were too nosy. The Alliance might have been the first option they selected, but there were so many of choices that they could have sent after me: a competitor, the Hierarchy, the Union, even my own company. Now I'm trapped in the vicious cycle, human. I lost everything because of you."

"Still got away with a pretty glitzy ship," Jack snorted, which temporarily made her the object of Phoria's ire.

"You keep saying '_they'_," James interjected. "Who are you talking about? The main shareholder of CytoSystems?"

"Who else would I be referring to?" the quarian shot back.

Jack clenched her fingers, producing a biotic crackle of electricity from between her knuckles. A warning not to get too smart. Phoria seemed to pale slightly, fully aware that the human woman could probably snap her in half without breaking a sweat if she so chose.

"Well?" James pressed. "Care to tell us who that might be?"

Phoria looked to the marine then over to Jack, clearly helpless. Words fluttered and died on her tongue. The well of excuses ran dry. She cowered further, unused to being so impotent. It enraged the quarian. It frightened the quarian.

"I… I can't."

"Wrong answer," Jack grimaced as she gave a casual wave, sending a flutter of biotic force fanning through the air. The tiny buffet impacted upon Phoria's shoulder and exploded like a firework, forcing her down upon her back again in a painful rush.

As Jack stood to deliver a fearsome blow, Phoria now tried to scramble back to a sitting up position, eyes wide and fearful. "_I never knew! I never met them!_"

"Oh, now that's bullshit," Jack said tonelessly, fist still hovering over, wreathed by the overhead haloed lights.

"Better start explaining fast," James said, nervously side-eyeing his companion in case she was about to lose her temper.

"Twenty years ago," the quarian began, "I was handed control of the company. I told you that the position was given to me by my old master, yes? Well, what she even managed to hide from me was that CytoSystems was in financial trouble. The war had hit its assets hard and it was slow to recover. The debt it had accrued was reaching its expiration dates. We needed to pay off that debt in order to remain solvent."

"You probably figured this out not very far in your tenure, I take it?" Jack asked.

"A mere eight months," Phoria admitted.

"Was that how you were bought?" James tilted his head. "Someone stepped in, offered to pay off the outstanding debt?"

Phoria fell silent, the lack of a denial acting as confirmation enough. "The only conversations I had with this… entity… was through proxies. And all those patsies spoke through proxies of their own. I never figured out how deep the web had been spun. All I know is that a spokesperson came to me one day, said that they represented a party interesting in buying a controlling stake in exchange for bailing CytoSystems out. I couldn't afford to turn them away. We were doomed to file for bankruptcy if we didn't secure a stable cash flow. I had to accept the terms of the offering because I had so much to lose and the deal seemed accommodating at first. I could keep my title, my benefits. I was going to hold onto what I had gained because I knew that I would never get it back if it slipped from my grasp."

"The _money_," Jack mocked. "Always about the money."

"I take it once the agreement was finalized, that was when the company went through its reincorporation? Put you down as its _co_-CEO?" James pressed.

Phoria nodded, the trails of her _sehni_ bobbing in her wake. "Sounds too good to be true, in hindsight, doesn't it?"

"I'll refrain from passing judgment on that one," James said. He then leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully, a new line of questioning coming to mind. "The merger. Between CytoSystems and the Alliance. Your idea?"

Phoria paused for a moment before slowly shaking her head.

"The benefactor's?" James raised his eyebrows.

"CytoSystems was being completely kept afloat by their money," Phoria defended. "My directives were to always go along with whatever idea the benefactor had in mind for my company. I was also not allowed to question my orders. If there was any resistance—_any_—he would withdraw all funding. He would ruin me."

James flattened a hand for Jack to sit down now that he had gotten the mood to a more suitable level. Once she had done that, he returned his attention to the quarian. "So if the initial contact was from CytoSystems, what terms did the Alliance dictate to accept the offer?"

Again, Phoria seemed to be at a loss for words. All she could manage was a half-hearted shrug, looking very much like an intimidated craven than an executive of a multi-planetary company. "Nothing," she murmured. "There were no concessions. The Alliance accepted the terms of the merger immediately—they changed nothing for their benefit."

"Did you ever figure out why the merger was set up in the first place?"

Phoria dimly nodded. "It was to begin a new phase of legitimizing the private military of CytoSystems. It would have made them an exclusive contractor for the Alliance, with all the judicial protection it could offer."

James immediately looked to Jack and made a motion with his head to indicate that he wished to speak in an adjourning room. The two then silently rose from their chairs and squeezed into the nearby bedroom, whereupon a queen-size bed draped in three separate blankets filled two thirds of the room, cutting down on maneuverability.

"Son of a bitch," James said as he closed the door. "This person, the one who's got Phoria's leash, they're using her to dip their toe in the water on this whole PMC deal. They've got CytoSystems certified as an essential subcontractor to the Alliance, effectively making them _part_ of the Alliance."

"And Phoria was the willing sucker," Jack shook her head without sympathy.

"Listen, we don't know how deep in the Alliance this whole thing runs, but we shouldn't expect to fall back on them for help."

"If you say so. I take it you have a plan for this?"

James appeared to preen in accomplishment. "I have an in with the human councilor. I can send out a message to him in a few hours, tell him to pick us up at a designated location. We get put in a safe house and deliver Phoria's testimony. Win for everyone, right?"

"Nothing if a little naïve," Jack scratched at the sides of her shorn hair. "Your problem is that you can be a little too trusting, Vega."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"A mistake. You shouldn't trust everyone that appears to be on your side."

"Why not?" James looked at the tattooed woman in a puzzled and artful way. "I trust you."

Jack smiled shyly, but she did not break eye contact as she placed a hand on the closest wall for support. "And that's why you're doomed, marine. Doomed. Doomed. Doomed."

* * *

_Saunders Island (Falkland Islands)__  
Alliance Base: Sentinel Five Tau  
BLACK SITE_

The slashing rain, thick enough to obscure visibility to nearly the length of an armspan, pounded the barren island mercilessly throughout the night. The fields of fachine and native box were flattened by the ruinous downpour, not a single shrub or tree to be within sight. The cracked ground was carpeted by stringy grass and hardy ferns, a good portion of which were invasive to the area. At this time, draped in darkness, the island's wildlife had quieted, though the miserable conditions could have contributed to the stillness of the fauna. There would ordinarily be a cacophony of calls and barks from the variety of seals and sea lions, not to mention the flocks of albatross and penguins that would ordinarily keep to themselves, secluded from the underwater predators.

The majority of the island, though, was occupied by the most common invasive species known to Earth. The Alliance had constructed Sentinel Five Tau here as a black site due to its remote location and partly because of the area's sordid history in getting somehow embroiled in conflicts when the islands themselves held no strategic or mineral value. Sentinel Five Tau, or SFT as the lingo went, looked like any other air base replete with barracks, swaths of hangars, and ridged walls with enough ordinance to light up a capital ship in orbit.

Upon the facility's landing strip, a cadre of troopers, fourteen in total, along with a service dog, waited patiently. They were dressed from head to toe in their dark Alliance armor, with ponchos covering their body from their thighs up. The ponchos flapped wildly in the whipping winds, the savage rainfall making everyone look like they were undulating, becoming liquid themselves. The dog, dressed in an olive combat vest, sat on its haunches quietly, not at all disturbed from the rain that soaked its fur.

A low throb began to push through the drops of buckshot-sized rain. In mere moments, a spotlight from an approaching shuttle pierced a spear of light into the dark heart of the storm. The craft took the turbulence easily as it came in for landing. The rain looked like falling stalactites silhouetted against the shuttle's landing lights. The gales from the dying engines buffeted the ponchos of the soldiers some more, spraying more wreaths of wetness and creating shockwaves upon the cold metal ground.

The exit hatch to the shuttle opened and the Aeronaut ducked underneath the low opening as he exited, sans water-resistant clothing, followed shortly by the hulking and canine form of Raucous. The Alliance soldier that headed up the platoon started to stride forward to meet them halfway, leaving his hands in his poncho's pockets.

The Aeronaut similarly ambled towards the men in a casual gait, uncaring that he was getting soaked. The soft green of his optics shimmered like cat's eyes and the heavy matte steel of his armor turned lustrous as he was drenched in seconds. Behind him, Raucous was making quiet growling noises as he plod forward, steam hissing from gaps between his steel teeth, a ridged and saurian-like tail whipping back and forth in his wake.

The Alliance soldier stopped within two meters of the mercenary, the lights from the ship now illuminating the rank of colonel upon his poncho's shoulder. The Aeronaut did not seem to be in a hurry, as he stood still in the hissing rain while it echoed in the blind night land.

The Aeronaut tilted his head as he found solace in the storm. "Show it to me."

The colonel snapped his fingers, a sound that cut through the maelstrom, and a lieutenant rushed forward with a good-sized lockbox. The colonel took the box from his subordinate, keyed in the code, and lifted the lid to show the Aeronaut. The mercenary peered inside and saw an unusually curved object, as dark as a singularity and winding in abstract fractals. He lifted his arm upon which a gauge had been directed. His HUD was detecting trace amounts of emitted energy in at least seven different spectra. A miniscule amount, but it fit precisely into the expected ranges.

The Aeronaut nodded and unhooked a thin package that had been fastened to his back. The colonel exchanged the box for the package. Upon opening the case, the colonel withdrew a tiny silver square tile that was a hair thicker than a bookmark. He flipped it between his fingers, finding no writing upon its faces.

"That's all of it?" the colonel asked as he placed the credit chit back into its case.

"That's half of it," the Aeronaut said. "The rest will be electronically transferred upon completion of our business here. A precaution."

The colonel did not respond right away. It was clear he did not like this development. "You told us that we would receive the stated amount should we come across any of the pieces that had been requested. We've given you one of those pieces."

"And your contribution is highly appreciated. A few things first. How did you come across it?"

"Happenstance," the colonel said. "It was innocuously stored in the hold of a colonist ship that was intercepted in the system."

The Aeronaut murmured in thought. "Perhaps they did not realize the value of what they had been carrying."

"That was our assessment as well."

"Where might the colonists be now?"

"On site," the soldier jerked a thumb towards one of the hangars. "Relocated and ready to be processed. You wanted to peruse the latest stock?"

"Like last time. That would also sufficiently conclude our business, I believe. Plus, I brought a friend." The Aeronaut looked behind him towards Raucous, whose rimfire eyes wrapped meteoric streaks around his head—the cyborg gave a thrumming growl, animalistic, causing the colonel to bristle a bit. Enjoying the uneasiness his companion was giving the man, the Aeronaut turned back. "He gets antsy when he has his dry spells."

"I'm sure we can accommodate."

Just then, the service dog over near the rest of the Alliance soldiers began to let out a series of loud barks, threatening to overcome the riotous thunder overhead. The Aeronaut cocked his head and grabbed at the colonel's arm, causing the man to whip his head around at the mercenary.

"The dog," the Aeronaut said around the splashing rain. "I'll take that too."

The colonel visibly bristled, though his expression was still unreadable underneath his combat helmet. "The dog's not part of the deal."

"It is now. Give it to me."

"It's not for sale. It cost a lot of time and money to train."

"You'll just have to find the time," the Aeronaut simpered. "As for the money, what you just received is more than enough to cover the cost. So, here's how this is going to play out. Give me the dog, or I deactivate the chit. You get nothing and I walk away with your little contribution." The mercenary's dual-lensed helmet then peered out to the collection of troopers milling about just a few meters away. "I'm sure you've told your men about this deal tonight. No doubt you've promised them some hefty kickbacks from the money in the chit. Money that they would love to use on booze or whores—anything to pick their spirits up on this fucking dump. I wonder how they would react if you somehow screwed it up for them? You think they would take it well if I were to siphon the chit right here and now? Loyalty is good and all, but that vanishes so easily when you promise a large amount of money and don't deliver."

The colonel eyed the Aeronaut through the slit in his helmet, weighing his options. He did not look back at his men, already picturing the dreadful outcome if he had to go to them, hat in hand, and inform them that they would not be receiving their cut from the exchange tonight. They hated this island anyway and they still had several months left on their deployment. If they were going to be stuck here with very little to show for it…

"Fine," the colonel growled and he waved for the animal's handler to come over. The soldier trotted the dog over and handed the leash to the colonel, who then tried to hand it to the Aeronaut.

"Tell it to sit first," the Aeronaut ordered, not taking the leash.

The colonel blinked but made a downward pointing motion with a hand. The dog, a German Shepard, settled down on its haunches, tongue lolling out as it drank the water that fell from the sky.

The Aeronaut knelt down and tried to lift a hand to the animal, but the dog bared its teeth and gave a growl at the mercenary. He pulled his hand back with a laugh and the dog resumed its buoyant stare. Its fur was matted with dampness and fluid dripped from its muzzle. The lobo panted in rapid breaths, hungry eyes round like the moon in the soaked night.

"Been a while since you were near a dog, eh?" the colonel lightly chortled, finding amusement in the mercenary's hesitance.

"Some time, yes," the Aeronaut said. "Since I was a kid."

"Any reason why you want one now?"

The Aeronaut kept the dead lenses of his helmet directed at the dog, who was squinting back at him in the heavy rain. "I find it remarkable that they seem to have no fear. They think of themselves as bigger than they really are but all end up shying away when struck. Larger than life until they're reminded of their mortality." The mercenary tried petting it again, but the dog gave another firm snap, jaws of shining white teeth closing in on empty air. "There's the training in action. Bred to kill. I think I've seen this exact breed before—one nipped me on the arm when I was little. Untrained, useless thing. My whole arm was bloody. I recall my father pulling the demon off me and shooting it in the head. Its owner, our neighbor, was inept at training her pet, you see. She came running out of her house and threw herself upon the dead thing. I still can see the dog's blood on her blouse—she cried herself hoarse. I just remember thinking that that day would be the last time an animal would take me by surprise… man or beast."

"So you wanted this one to help… conquer a fear?" the colonel asked.

"In a manner of speaking," the Aeronaut said as he kept on staring at the dog's seemingly friendly face. Its ears were perked up, nostrils sopping, and its tongue fluttering with each pant. As the dog continued to squint at its new master past the rain, the Aeronaut's hand slowly began to drop to his side. "Look at that. It thinks of itself so highly. So sure of its position. Almost as if it thinks I belong to its pack."

"It'll be difficult to undo the commands the Alliance taught it," the colonel continued, "but with enough time and—"

The colonel's words choked off as the Aeronaut unexpectedly raised his arm high, hand gripping the barrel of his submachine gun while lightning illuminated the blunt grip that jutted downward in a savage club. The mercenary then hurled his arm downward, smashing the grip upon the dog's head with a sickening crack. The dog gave a startled yelp and collapsed on the ground. Behind the colonel, he could hear uneasy mutterings from his men as they stared at the scene, just as shocked as he was.

But the Aeronaut was not finished. He raised his arm again before sending it down. And again. And again. And again.

In moments, the thwacks turned to crunches then turned to splats. The dog had been killed from the first blow outright and had remained still during the entire ordeal, but that did not assuage the Aeronaut any. He kept striking the dead dog with the butt of his gun, sending out streams of dark liquid with every blow that mixed with the rain, some of it spurting onto the colonel's feet in warm lashes.

The colonel stood over the carnage, at a loss for words. Nearby, Raucous seemed to breathe in gleefully, a cauldron of steam rising from his mouth in anticipation as he watched the Aeronaut brutalize the mutt.

Thin geysers of blood erupted from each hit. One splattered a dim trail at the edge of the Aeronaut's mask. The rain washed it away.

The Aeronaut hit the dog one more time. Then another, for good measure. He gazed listlessly towards the invisible horizon. He had not even been watching what he was doing the entire time he set himself at the animal. Behind his mask, he gave a slow, tender blink, shuddered slightly in relief, and stood back up before reflecting upon his handiwork, the rain scouring him clean already.

At his feet, the remains of the dog lay unrecognizable. Its head had been completely cracked open, blood and brains spilling out from the divide that had been chiseled out at the top of its skull. A ruined eye dangled by its optic nerve, having been expelled from its socket. Smashed teeth were carried away by the rushing streams, where several bloody tendrils wrapped their way from the stained fur, hurtling headlong across the ground.

His breath returning, the Aeronaut appraised the colonel as he holstered his submachine gun, his vocabulator distorting each tired exhalation. "Now… the next order of business?"

The colonel very nearly shook his head in disgust, wondering what kind of person would have willingly hired a monster such as this to represent them. He almost cursed the extent of their partnership together, but held his tongue at the last moment, simply thankful that this was the only price he had to pay for his participation.

"If you'll… follow me," he said to the two, leading them towards one of the nearby hangars, where a dry and bright cavity awaited.

The interior of the structure was mostly empty, with only a few fast-attack Triton fighters hanging on the overhead cranes, fuel hoses hooked up to the ports which emitted frozen vapors from the seals. The colonel headed towards a staircase that descended downward and abruptly took a turn to the right, a stamped concrete passageway that led deep into the core of the island. The Aeronaut and Raucous impassively tromped down the steps, sluicing water as they went, leaving behind dampened trails.

Secluded from the storm, the thunder dimly rang about the smoothened walls. Darkness ran blue in the deep and claustrophobic channels, extending into a sprawling series of halls and tunnels that ran grid-like underneath the surface of the earth. Exposed wiring snaked from one tackily placed light fixture to the other, throwing off harsh but contrasting blades of illumination that made the shadows all the more blacker. The trio came across no other living soul as they navigated the passageways, with only the reports from their footfalls choosing to sound off their company.

A few more minutes passed and they reached a door that would look innocuous otherwise were it not for the four guards flaking the entrance. None of them stopped the colonel or his guests from approaching, and the door opened with little fanfare to admit them all.

Inside, the Aeronaut and Raucous stood closest to the wall as they inspected the contents of the room. Half the interior had been divided with an old fashioned steel set of bars acting as the meridian. On one side, the colonel stood with his guests. On the other, a mass of huddling and whimpering bodies shuddered together, looking at the new entrants with fearful eyes.

There had to be at least seventy of them. Maybe eighty. Turians, all of them female, of all ages. Their clothes hung in tatters about their bodies, revealing expanses of ridged carapace and smooth cartilage. Their naturally thin bodies looked even more rail-like. They were undernourished and coughing. Most looked absolutely terrified. They cowered behind the bars, barefooted and sickly.

The Aeronaut approached the bars and inspected the group. The turians closest to him squeaked in fear and tried to shy away as far as they could muster but their fellow captives could only scrunch so much without compacting each other. The mercenary noticed that several of the women looked bruised. Some even carried open cuts to their arms and face.

He stepped away, blocking himself off to the pleas that some had started to snuffle out. "Where were they picked up?" he asked the colonel.

"Titan," the colonel said. "Their ship was detected coming in from the Charon relay. We think they were trying to use the moon's magnetosphere to hide from our patrols for a time."

"No identification on them?"

"They were not processed in the immigration registry."

"Illegals, then. Isolated from society."

The colonel nodded. "They were most likely colonists from a failed world, looking to find a new home in our solar system. Trying to avoid the conflicts in lawless space, would be my guess."

"What did you do to the men?"

"They're elsewhere on the base. Due to be deported at the end of the week. The women, however… they're to be disseminated."

Raucous simmered in anticipation. Though he was mute he understood full well, like everyone in the room, what _that_ entailed.

"All par for the course, I take it?" the Aeronaut nodded. "So much effort just to keep this from the public eye. Remarkable at how this has gone on for so long."

The colonel seemed to be pleased with himself. "We do encounter the occasional misstep when a government gets a bit too curious or idealistic for their own good, but that is always easily rectified. Bear in mind that what we do here has been going on for over two centuries. We're more than well prepared to deal with a stubborn journalist or a legislator with a judicial stick up their ass. The contingencies we have in place have never failed in protecting the core operation."

"Got a tally on how many have been killed to… _protect_ the operation?"

"Oh, a few," the colonel said impishly. "Give or take."

Both men chuckled in the stark silence, drawing concerned looks among the turian prisoners. Raucous was similarly laughing, his peals sounding more like the grinding of gears rather than uproarious laughter, but the cyborg was clearly enjoying himself nonetheless.

"So…" the colonel said, resigned to the fact that submission to the Aeronaut's whim was the best way to walk away with the money today, "which one do you want first?"

The Aeronaut looked out into the sea of terrified faces. He scanned many of the eyes that fell upon him pleadingly, calculating their fear, determining their worth.

"Host's choice," the Aeronaut shrugged.

The colonel gestured in Raucous' direction, watching the four-legged cybernetic creature practically vibrate in his eagerness. "Does… uh… _he_ have any preference?"

"Afraid," the mercenary rasped. "He likes them afraid."

Ten minutes later and both the Aeronaut and Raucous had been relocated to another sublevel of the basement, staring at the wall in front of them which was lined with doors, blank and devoid of any numbering. The two stood in front of adjacent doors, directed at the closed faces. They kept themselves statuesque, waiting until they received the signal to enter. The only light was being projected by a stand in the corner, throwing only a portion of the Aeronaut's body into the brightness while elongated shadows played havoc down the hallway, intruding further into unknown territories.

The base's colonel then descended from a staircase to their right, his poncho still not removed. "Whenever you're ready," he told the two. "Anything else before you begin?"

The Aeronaut nodded in acknowledgement. "Isolation would be preferable."

"As you wish. Once you're finished, I'll just be upstairs."

As soon as he left, a klaxon began blaring and two flashing red lights began to resound above the doors that were before the Aeronaut and Raucous. Two seconds later, they both opened with a cantankerous series of effortful groans, sending an array of dust spiraling down from the foundation. Silently, the Aeronaut approached the entrance to his room and looked to see what was inside.

Compressed into the corner, a young turian girl trembled as the pillar of light from the outside hallway fell onto sensitive eyes, temporarily blinding her. The Aeronaut moved slightly to obscure the alien in shadow. The turian was barely clothed—she was shivering. It was hard to determine her age. Her pale yellow eyes stared up against the suited man, quailing more and more as she found a blank and impassive mask that looked upon her with passionless eyes.

"Please," the turian begged around a ragged throat. Her mandibles quaked heavily and she pulled her taloned arms closer to her chest, trying to cover herself. "Don't… don't… please. I don't know what you want. I don't know what you want. I don't know what you want."

To the Aeronaut's left, Raucous unleased an eager rasp. Another women had been placed within the cyborg's cell, just like the Aeronaut's, all for his enjoyment. His clawed feet emitted a tattoo upon the concrete floor, keen to proceed as his spine ridged in preparation. He creaked a hungry laugh, the creature having abandoned all civility that had once possessed him earlier in life.

The girl was still repeating her endless plea as the Aeronaut turned back to appraise her.

"You don't need to worry," the Aeronaut assured the girl as he unfastened his right glove, exposing an expanse of pale and unscarred flesh. He clasped the dangling glove to his belt—as he did so his bare fingertips brushed the hilts of his bloodstained submachine gun and of the knife that pressed tightly to his upper leg. "I promise you that you will find that out before the night is done."

And with that, both the Aeronaut and Raucous strode into their respective rooms, the door latching themselves shut in their wakes.

As the minutes ticked by, muffled and unintelligible noises soon emanated from the Aeronaut's room, too soft to be clearly interpreted. But from Raucous' room, a violent series of cries pierced metal and stone for nearly ten seconds. A serrated and horrible ripping sound followed by a stark crunch silenced the cries, allowing the eerie echo to linger in a fragile wail throughout the basement.

Indecipherable in the shoddy light, a dark liquid began to trickle underneath the door to the room Raucous had entered.

The silence reigned supreme.

* * *

**A/N: I'll be taking a little longer of a break than normal, due to the upcoming holidays over in America, but writing will start up again once the week's craziness has wound down. Now, I'm not saying that things are going to get any easier in terms of content going forward, but I can attest that things won't reach today's level of brutality, from a certain point of view.**

**Playlist:**

**Approaching CytoSystems/Elevator Fight**  
**"Lemurian Star"**  
**Henry Jackman and Matthew Margeson**  
**Captain America: The Winter Soldier (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Vs. Riley**  
**"The Window Reflection"**  
**Patrick Doyle**  
**Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Appraising Aleph**  
**"Reflections"**  
**Daft Punk**  
**TRON Legacy (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Black Site**  
**"Distance"**  
**Lorn**  
**Killzone: Shadowfall (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	15. Chapter 15: A Fetal Annihilation

"_Do not consult the wiki for a detailed analysis of the Lazarus Project. It has no basis in scientific accuracy and is thus technically impossible from a medical standpoint. Therefore, there will not be any supplementary material that will be able to suspend your disbelief further."_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_Shepard Residence__  
Rannoch  
11 Years Ago_

_The searing hot casting needle gently tapped at the edge of the compensating component, sending a quick flurry of blue sparks spouting into the air, fountain-like. Roahn instinctively recoiled away from the boiling flashes of metal and lifted her tool away from the jumbled assembly—her helmet would have protected her from being blinded or burned had she not moved away but there were still some impulses that not even an enviro-suit could suppress._

"_Stupid… idiot… bosh'tet… clumsy oaf!" Roahn sputtered as she slammed her tool to the surface of the workbench in frustration. "Why can't you just work?!"_

_The curse rang out among the dry and craggy rock walls of the workshop. The air was thick and cold down here, understandable considering that this part of the house was several meters below the foundation. The workshop had been primarily used by Roahn's mother and had been a part of the original home's construction—an elevator bay stemming from the house's living room offered the only legitimate connection down to this room (a secret passage further in the back that led to the beach being discounted), in which a prototypical lair had been carved out for good old-fashioned engineering experiments in the sanctity of peace and quiet. Roahn had not known of this room's existence until about six years ago and, like all precocious and curious children, she had been awed at having such a secretive place to explore. After all, what child would not be ecstatic at having their own secret lair?_

_A tender branch of smoke sprouted from the electrical components before her, but this quickly dissipated as the heat from Roahn's previous application rapidly wore off against the magnesium coils. She stood from her chair, paced for a moment around the room with her hands on her hips, as she finally leaned over the workbench to study the problem. The object before her was larger than she was and it carried with it an abject familiarity that transcended memory and ran on pure intuition._

_A geth in a state of disassembly lay before her on the bench._

_It was no ordinary geth, Roahn knew that much. This specimen in particular had actually been in her family's possession before she had ever been born. Her mother had been the one who had procured the geth, a handsome yellow construct, and had most likely intended to repair it back to full functionality. The geth had been found at a quarian reactivation center at the capitol city, and with a little help from an old acquaintance—Admiral Zaal'Koris—Tali had spirited away the geth to study it for herself. What Tali's true purpose in keeping the geth in her home was probably never going to be made clear, but not too long ago, when exploring some of the files in the old console, Roahn had stumbled across several of her mother's notes detailing hypothetical processes designed for what she had always suspected her overall goal had been: reactivating the geth._

_Roahn had been cautiously tinkering away at the geth since she had turned fourteen, ruthlessly adhering to her mother's meticulous documentation. After a year had passed, Roahn had felt that she had made some headway in bringing the geth closer to reactivation, though she knew that there was still a long way to go._

_What was strange about this geth, Roahn had realized—and this was something Tali had to have seen right away—was that it did not look like it had been knocked offline from the widespread energy burst that the Crucible had emitted at the end of the war. There was enough information in the geth's identification records and the electronic wear of the components to indicate that it had somehow survived the wave of energy and had lived for several years afterward. The geth had only been deactivated once someone had decided to put a couple of plasma shots right into its chest—the carbon scoring and melted armor was indication enough to pinpoint that as the cause of "death." The plasma had unfortunately burned through several of the major components, but the geth's motor functions were still operational. All that needed to be done was to fix and mitigate the damage and initiate a systematic software reboot that would theoretically bring this geth platform back online._

_Easier said than done. Repairing this thing had been a nightmare from the start._

_Geth were not like any other automaton out in the galaxy. They were not just made up of nuts and bolts that could be swapped out with parts from a hardware store. Their platforms did not adhere to any known repair manual, given that the actual procedures for constructing a geth had been lost some three hundred years ago. Making things more difficult was the fact that geth had synthetic muscles and conductive tissue instead of easily accessible hardware ports. This meant that repairs would be more akin to open-heart surgery rather than replacing a spent manifold on a skycar._

_Fortunately, Roahn had the patience to work around this problem. Tali had offered up some written solutions of her own to serve as a welcome guide for Roahn to go by. Before she had made any sort of intrusion into the main cavity of the geth, Roahn had clamped the geth's limbs to prevent the spillage of conductive fluid (necessary since said fluid was impossible to come by in any quantity) and had procured the proper tools required for such a procedure. Conductive fluid had no expiration date and could easily be filtered from the main cavity just by orienting the geth upon the table in a certain way._

_Roahn had used a laser scalpel to cut away the ruined section of the geth's chestplate, namely the area where it had been shot. The workshop had an array of plastics and silicates, so it was a simple matter for Roahn to scan the damaged piece into the console and to print out a three dimensional replicate and have it spray-painted the same shade of goldenrod._

_Then, she had begun cutting._

_The scalpel parted synthetic muscle as easily as waving a baton. Roahn could still recall a sharp and tannic scent from the burned strands as she had opened the geth up. Additional clamps and pins were then applied to widen the hole that Roahn had made, allowing her to see the extent of the damage. The organic covering acted as an outer shell for the inner "organs" which existed as a series of tubes connected to what looked like a swarm of fist-sized dodecahedral cores. These tubes, cable-thick, snaked to every part of the geth, pumping either datastream fluid or information through fibrous cords throughout the body._

_Now was when things started to become really difficult. The lack of procedural knowledge surrounding geth internals became an enormous hindrance to Roahn's productivity. Even Tali's notes could not provide any guidance as she had never reached that step in her own analysis yet. It was easy to spot the components within the geth that had been damaged and that needed replacing, but it would take quite an effort to figure out exactly what those components were meant to do._

_Two of the cores of the geth had been irreparably damaged in its death. Opening them both up was a tedious and nerve-wracking affair. Make the wrong move and Roahn could potentially shear away something she was not supposed to. She managed to solve this problem by cutting a microscopic hole into the core and pushed a fiber-optic lens into the hole she had just created, allowing her to make an internal scan of the core and how it was laid out. That way, she could figure out the slicing points without too much pressure. But that was only the start of the fun._

_Every single move she made in trying to figure out what each miniscule part did was akin to finding a needle in a haystack amidst a field of haystacks. Some of the intricate metals did not react all that well to heat or currents—as Roahn had just been reminded—and would often announce this fact by shooting out sparks in a glimmering stream, never failing to startle the engineer. When she finally did determine a part's particular purpose, replicating it was a relatively straightforward affair._

_Only problem was that she had thousands of parts to go through._

_The one particular piece that was frustrating Roahn at the moment was what she theorized was a pulse emitter, presumably for the conductive fluid pump. If her hunch was correct, rectifying this piece would go a long way to bringing the geth back online. The only problem was that she was having difficulty in removing it—the emitter would not respond to heated tools that should have been able to unseat it. Applying pressure usually resorted in a tiny conflagration. Roahn took a deep breath as she stared at the geth's innards, the pieces reflected back upon her visor, glittering like jewels as they mingled with the mercury ovals of her eyes._

_She was so concentrated on the labyrinth of electronics before her that she did not notice the subtle thrum of the elevator at the far end of the room. When her father did step out was when Roahn raised her eyes, the movement in her peripheral vision alerting her to his presence._

"_I brought dinner," Shepard said as he offered a bottle of gourmet food, tubed and sterilized, alongside a bottle of water. He set the victuals next to the console._

_Roahn stood back up and bent out the kinks she had accumulated from being hunched over. "Thanks, dad, but it's a little early for…"_

_Her sentence dissipated into thin air as Roahn realized, after checking her chronometer, that it was well into the evening already. The sun had gone down an hour ago._

_A smile formed on Shepard's bearded face, obviously finding his daughter's gradual realization amusing. "Glad I came down, then. You probably would have worked yourself until midnight."_

_Now that he mentioned it, Roahn became acutely aware of a rumble that emitted from her stomach. Come to think of it, she was now able to recall similar events earlier today in which her stomach had been trying to alert her but the warnings had all gone ignored in the heat of her work. She was starving._

"_I think I lost track of time," Roahn said thickly. "Have I really been in here all day?"_

"_Time flies with a busy mind," Shepard said as he picked up the food tube from where he had set it and walked over to hand it to his daughter. "Need an emergency induction port for the water?"_

"_You mean a straw?"_

"_I know what I said," Shepard winked at her._

_Roahn gave a tiny scoff but took the offered tube, her gloved hand touching her father's uncovered one. She was soon munching away at the food which, in all fairness, had merely been reheated but that was immaterial because the food itself was delicious. Her stomach kept growling at her, wanting more. She soon polished off the tube's contents in a few minutes and made an ear-shattering sigh of content. One need fulfilled._

_Shepard was now pacing around the workbench while his daughter now drank her water, inspecting Roahn's work upon the geth. "Looks like you've been making progress," he said in admiration._

"_Some," Roahn said around her straw. "The component cores are still giving me trouble."_

_Shepard peered inside the geth, looking upon the opened carapace. "I'd offer an encouraging word or two, but I'm afraid this sort of stuff is beyond me. Technology was never my strength. The only real solution I can possibly provide is to do a little percussive maintenance."_

"_Percussive maintenance?"_

_Shepard mimed beating on the cores with a fist._

"_Oh," Roahn laughed. "Percussive… as in… I get it."_

"_Probably not the best scenario for it to be utilized," Shepard conceded. "But why don't you run me through what you're trying to do?"_

_She was up for that. Roahn placed her now empty water bottle to the side as she waved her father over to one of the disassembled cores. She pointed to the part she had been trying to pry loose for the better part of an hour. "I think that is a pulse emitter for the geth's conducive fluid. Analogous to the heart, if you want a comparison. It's one of the main components that's been damaged and I've been working to get it free without damaging the connecting board. Heat's not working to dislodge it—it's made of a resistant metal. Titanium would be my guess."_

"_It's not under power or anything?"_

"_No, but there are residual wells of current in Sagan that occasionally give me a few roadblocks. Some of the systems in here aren't completely dead, from what I've discovered, but they're just tertiary systems, draining the last reserves of stored energy."_

_Shepard tapped his fingers against the edges of the table. Roahn looked at his twitching limb and back to his somber face, which was staring at a slightly downward angle, eyes distant, mouth flat._

"_You're trying to imagine how mom might solve this," Roahn said._

_Her father caught her eye but turned away after only a second with a limp grin. "What makes you say that?"_

"_You always have that face when you're thinking about her."_

_Shepard's shaky smile deepened and he shook his head ruefully. "I doubt I'll ever shake that habit, dear. When it comes to your mother, I'm always thinking about her."_

_Roahn stared sympathetically upon the man and she walked close to him, his tortured features reflected endlessly upon her visor. "You once told me many years ago of how much I remind you of her. I don't want you to be hurt more than you've—"_

_Shepard silently interrupted with an abrupt hand, raised between the two of them. "Never apologize for something beyond your control, Roahn. Never. Especially for this. I'll always have a part of myself that belongs with Tali. Seeing you today, how you act, what drives your interests… is just uncanny to me. But please understand that when I look at you, it is never pain that I feel."_

"_Then what is it?"_

_The human laid a hand upon Roahn's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Shepard's face turned warm, eroding all traces of the hardened warrior, leaving behind a kind man._

"_Pride," he said before he made one final squeeze and slowly turned away to head back to the elevator._

_Roahn did not know how she could comprehend the sequence of events and was relegated to a period of silence for a few minutes once her father had departed, the elevator whirring as it spirited him back up. After that had elapsed, she slowly turned back to the opened-up core she had upon the workbench. She gently pushed aside the tools that had been scattered abstractly around the component, representing her harried pace and frustrated mind. She picked the core up, the connected tubes trailing behind it like dangling intestines, and rotated back and forth while the powerful light stands glimmered shards of illumination upon the pieces of silicon and garnet within the delicate construct._

_She eyed the pulse emitter, recognizing the faint black scars that circled it like a shockwave upon the connection board—her previous attempts to melt the piece loose. Gingerly, she prodded the piece and brushed it clear of carbon scoring with a suited thumb. As the dust was wiped away, Roahn noticed a thin splinter between two pieces of titanium upon the piece. Before, she had thought the pulse emitter was a single silver bar molded to the board, but now it looked like it was a metallic insert that fit into a larger socket._

"_I wonder…" Roahn murmured as a crazy thought came to mind._

_Upon the bench, she pushed past the pile of specialized tools and quickly located two that she had set far to the back of the bench: a thin screwdriver and a hammer. Carefully, she positioned the razor-thin wedge of the screwdriver against the line she had just uncovered upon the pulse emitter and felt a tangible click emit—like teeth chattering—as the tip of the tool lodged just so between the two pieces._

_With everything in place, Roahn levelled the hammer just above the head of the screwdriver. She took a few practice knocks to familiarize herself with the necessary movement._

"_Here goes nothing," she said right before she gave a good whack to the screwdriver with the hammer._

_With a loud pop, the pulse emitter sprang out of the socket! Roahn was so startled she almost dropped her tools._

_The pulse emitter tumbled past the opened core and bounced gently upon the workbench before tumbling to a halt. With outstretched fingers, Roahn plucked the piece from where it had fallen and held it up to the light. Its simplicity was almost elegant. Right away Roahn knew that it would be an easy part to replicate._

"_Percussive maintenance," Roahn chuckled as she tossed the emitter into the air before she caught it in a hand. She then looked to the closed elevator doors and donned an appreciative smile. "Thanks, dad."_

* * *

_Menhir_  
Pilot Bridge

"Creator? Creator-Shepard?"

Roahn scrambled to find a modicum of attentiveness within her as the query jostled her from her recollections. The chin of her helmet rising from the pillar of stability that had been her arm, she instinctively stretched her limbs out (both natural and artificial) as she sat within the grasping comforts of the co-pilot's chair.

She turned and found an inquisitive presence seeking affirmation to her left. This was in the form of an elegantly curved head upon which hues of xanthous and saffron merged to form a nearly cohesive complexion. The delicate machinery of a major/minor lens combination, much like a moon orbiting a planet, whirred and rotated expectantly, projecting a vivid chroma of aquamarine light.

She suppressed a yawn and focused her attention upon the geth. "I zoned out, right? Sorry, Sagan. The cockpit is just the most peaceful part of the ship for me."

Apart from being the most forward part of the ship, away from the hubbub of the main decks, the cockpit of the _Menhir_ really only promoted one single inhabitant. The pilot, Sagan, never needed to sleep, eat, or perform any unnecessary items that did not have to do with his role with flying the ship. The geth sat in a wide chair with enormous armrests, somehow able to make the seat fit to his oversized contours. Several dozen small screens rose and flashed around the geth, projecting every single scrap of information that Sagan would ever need to access. Most organics would be overwhelmed in the geth's position. Fortunately, the mind of a synthetic could be easily partitioned.

Sagan's hands were tapping away at three different keyboards even as he was looking at Roahn. The geth was supremely efficient in this way. He did not even need a copilot (even though the ship had a seat for one), for he could perform enough work in an hour than ten highly trained piloting staff could do in a day. To Roahn, it looked like a halo of code was wrapping its way around Sagan's head as the occasional submenu split off from one of the main pages, a thin white line like a lightning bolt the only possible indicator of the function's connection to its main process.

"You were experiencing internal visualizations," the geth stated, still staring at the quarian.

Roahn provided a slight smile. "It's called daydreaming. And… yes, I was."

"Dreaming," Sagan repeated, the flaps upon his head twitching once as he absorbed this response.

The quarian straightened in her seat as she found herself detecting a note of interest in the geth. "Is that a concept that is easy for you to imagine? Synthetics don't dream, after all."

"That is correct," Sagan nodded. "It is an impossibility for a true geth to experience a dream."

"Do you see that as an efficiency for you in your position?"

The geth did not need any time to conjure a response. "Perhaps. A dream translated for a synthetic would be a deviation akin to a malfunction. I am not designed to consider concepts so abstract that they lack significance or meaning. Therefore, it is unclear to me why past civilizations would have chosen to have given weight to these anomalies—species such as quarians, humans, turians, and others all share similar records of dreams influencing significant decisions in their pasts by individuals with the ability to elicit radical changes. It is a challenge to logic why unconscious thoughts have been translated in such fashions."

Sagan paused a beat before continuing.

"Despite those occurrences, it cannot be denied that I have harbored a curiosity for this phenomenon. It is a byproduct of an organic mind but the experience has become ubiquitous where understanding it further would assist in my complete understanding of organics."

Roahn found herself nodding along with the geth sympathetically. Periodically she would have to remind herself that Sagan's penchant for eschewing the traditional "we" pronoun when speaking was not at all typical of the normal geth dialect. Sagan had been activated with an independent and individualistic streak already set within him—Roahn suspected she had messed up part of the geth's software reboot which had elicited this change—but it meant little difference to her either way. Sagan was easy to talk to, though he did still have the tendency to maintain a stiff and formal vocabulary when conversing.

She crossed a leg as she rotated the chair to fully behold the geth. "You regret that you don't have such an opportunity, Sagan?"

The geth was quiet for a moment, oddly uncharacteristic. "Regret is an organic emotion. No matter how close the circumstances might be, I will never attain the vital insight to make a direct comparison."

"So, by that line of thinking, wouldn't your understanding of _not_ being able to attain that insight possibly register as regret?"

"Possibly," Sagan admitted. "But while such circumstances could theoretically provoke frustration or disappointment as a reaction from an organic, a synthetic simply reads this as invalid or even missing data. A corrupted file can be visualized as a block in which the bits that make it up have been damaged or removed—my understanding of organic emotions can be visualized similarly."

Roahn smirked as she levelled a finger at the geth. "Yet you're knowledgeable enough to make a prediction on organic reactions."

"Empirical evidence leads to hypothesis with a high degree of accuracy," Sagan said in as natural of a tone as a geth could possibly muster. "I am capable of inferring. I am not capable of empathizing."

"I understand," Roahn said.

Sagan was back to monitoring and analyzing anomalies in the _Menhir's_ engine output. Diagrams of external heat bleed were momentarily superimposed in mid-air while Sagan worked to compensate for a slight temperature variance. Roahn did take note that while most organic pilots would have been fine with such a tiny degree of variance, Sagan was meticulous to the point of being immaculate with his quick analytical work. In seconds, all four engines were registering the same temperature. Not a tenth of a degree difference was noted.

Roahn got up from her chair and walked behind Sagan to watch the geth work. Above her, through the cockpit's skylights, the savage cerulean streaks of FTL travel blazed by the ship's hull. Beryl bolts slamming through the infinite night. _Dark energy remnants_, Roahn remembered, though it was easy to imagine the streaks being the quadrillions of stars they were passing by with each second.

"Sagan," Roahn asked, "do you see dreams as being symptomatic of organics? Is that why you're curious?"

"It is not a defining quality, Creator-Shepard," Sagan responded. "But it is significant."

"Then what do you think _is_ our defining quality?" she pressed, dimly noting that her left hand was curling in agitation while she spoke.

Sagan touched a control and the chair spun completely around. "There is no _one_ quality, Creator-Shepard. If there were, comprehension would be a simple affair. The complexity of organics is what causes the missing gaps in my memory. The variation in life does not adhere to defined rules. The chaos is structured, but the pattern is beyond understanding. The number of variables defy condensing the organic cryptogram to an equation. It is this dense logic that has rendered an unpredictability to your existence. It was a logic that not even the Old Machines were able to interpret."

"Old Machines," Roahn murmured. "You mean the Reapers?"

"They are one and the same. The Old Machines' perceived solution was destined to fail because of its inherent flaws. They believed they had found a way to preserve life by harvesting it, an aberration from their original mandate given to them by _their_ Creators. But organics cannot hope to understand the pattern of life, just like synthetics cannot. A true synthetic has very few material needs. Only energy and information are their sustaining values. Organics are different. While there may be certain outliers, the majority of organic needs are exponential compared to that of a synthetic. This is where one of the causes for the complexity comes in."

"Because we require more resources to be self-sufficient," Roahn said.

Sagan nodded his head once. "Yet once self-sufficiency is attained, organics rarely stall their need accumulation. You define your basic needs as food, housing, and income. It is rare that any growth in those three areas would plateau once the minimum threshold has been met. Organics seek to amass more than their bare minimum. This exacerbates the complexity of the model. It suggests that there is one key difference that decisively separates organics and synthetics: organics attain more satisfaction from accumulating resources under their possession. Such a conclusion also implies that a galaxy in harmony is predicted to have a societal or material structure devolve into an unpredictable chaotic deviation."

"The PMCs," Roahn realized. "People like Aleph, you mean."

"Yes," the geth said. "Though it is unclear which variable would bring about such a deviation. But this recent example is proof of the theorem's accuracy. Perhaps for the first time since this galaxy's creation, there existed a brief period of time—immediately after the war with the Old Machines had ended—in which interpersonal conflicts ceased to exist. Had such meliorism been proven to have been the final stage of organic development, there would have been instantaneous attempts to stagnate such a period and promote a new era of civilization. But this never occurred, because—"

"—Because peace is not what we're moving toward," Roahn broke in, now realizing where the geth was going. "It's _entropy_."

The geth maintained a respectful silence to let Roahn absorb the implications. "The sphere of influence an organic possesses cannot coexist peacefully. There will always be an overlap. It is in these areas of overlap in which the chaos exists."

Roahn narrowed her eyes. "It sounds like you think we're already condemned to a futile fight. That all we're doing is simply struggling to survive. If peace is just an illusion, why do this at all? Why should we continue pushing back against those that strive to tear everything apart?"

"I believe you already know the answer to that, Creator-Shepard."

"Do I?"

Now the geth stood, rearing up to his full height. His chassis made very little noise as it straightened out, though Roahn could still hear the quiet hisses from the synthetic muscle as they yanked and pulled at the mechanisms under the armor.

"It is because you push _away_ from the entropy, Creator-Shepard," Sagan spoke almost reverently. "Your actions are what brings you closer to that final stage. You seek to eliminate the deviations that are responsible for the chaos. That brings the equation into balance. No, Creator-Shepard, you are right to continue your fight, for the entropic variables seek to exacerbate the discord are numerous and dynamic. You most likely realize that better than anyone."

"Yes," Roahn nodded as she raised her left hand, catching the sparse teal glint of her visor upon her reflective palm. The vague sensation of having her real left hand in that place echoed as a ghost in her mind, a numbness that inhabited the cold and unfeeling metal.

"Yes," she said again. "Yes, I do."

* * *

Roahn was still replaying her conversation with Sagan in her head fifteen minutes later, after she had set aside some time to digest the entire affair. She was feeling a bit emptier than usual as a result of speaking with the geth. This was not Sagan's fault, as he was naturally a pragmatic sort but it did come at the cost at any hints of warmth. But this was all to be expected, she reasoned, as she did respect the geth for possessing the ability to speak frankly. There had been many times in her professional career when she had wished that people would stop beating around the bush and just speak their mind.

She needed a palate cleanser to bring her spirits up, though.

The quarian took the lift down to the engineering level and navigated the stout corridors until she reached the engine bay. A few technicians were doling over wide-table readouts denoting the drive core's performance.

And at the center of it all, staring almost serenely at the pulsating metallic orb that contained the dark and reactionary energy driving the _Menhir_ forward, was Korridon.

Roahn made sure to have her footfalls resound a little more heavily as she approached the turian so that he might hear her—he seemed to be engrossed in his work and she was worrying about startling him too much. Korridon seemed surprised to see her at this level and he stiffened on instinct—still mistrustful about officers, perhaps?

"Hey, commander," Korridon greeted, derailing that notion immediately, baffling Roahn slightly. "What brings you down here?"

Roahn shrugged, honestly not having a very clear answer herself. Snark took over in truth's absence. "Subordinate performance reviews. Wanted to see if you were up to snuff."

The turian's eyes widened and he frantically scratched underneath his fringe in a panic. "Shit, we actually _have_ those here?"

"Not really," Roahn said, dropping the façade immediately. "No one likes doing those, and Garrus _hates_ combing through the collected reports. Though, if you were to insist…"

"Please, no," Korridon mustered through a shaky laugh, relieved at the turn of events.

Roahn took delight in messing with the turian and similarly joined in his chuckling. She took a wayward glance towards the Council-provided techs that were minding their own business about the engineering bay and lidded her eyes back over to Korridon. "You know, you can still address me by my name instead of my rank, even with company around."

"Sorry about that, comm—er, _Roahn_," the turian hastily grinned. "I'm trying to keep that in mind." He then gravitated his stare down to Roahn's left arm, painfully eyeing the threshold that marked the termination of her enviro-suit and where the prosthetic began. He took a deep breath and found an expectant gaze reflected through the sheen of the quarian's visor. "I, uh… I heard about what happened on the last mission. How you came face to face with Aleph and all. That must have been terrifying."

Korridon's gaze was slipping back to Roahn's prosthesis as he spoke. No doubt he too was feeling some itching semblance of a stimulation, a rampant imagination attempting to conjure pain on a scale never felt before.

Roahn nodded dimly, noting the sympathetic look upon the turian. "It was," she admitted. "I can't deny that I wasn't afraid in that moment. But… I felt more when I was down there, staring at him. It wasn't just fear."

"What was it?"

The quarian prepared the word upon her tongue for a purposeful second. The intermittent flare of static electricity from the steel prison of the drive core reflected a simmering typhoon underneath azure shores. "Anger. Hatred for what he had done to me. It's been hours since I last saw him and I can't get his image out of my head. All I think about now is killing him, to make him suffer."

"Because he took your arm," Korridon gestured to the animated facsimile. "You don't worry that you could take things too far with this guy?"

"As long as I can justify it to myself," Roahn said, "I won't have any regrets. I was left alive for a reason, Korridon. I could have been easily killed when I was at his mercy, but I wasn't. And before I cleave that head from his body, Aleph will tell me why."

Proceeding further out onto the walkway that spilled into the room that held the drive core, Roahn treaded forward in an awed fashion as the humming sphere loomed large in front of her. Behind her, Korridon timidly trailed, focused not on the core's magnificence but upon Roahn's silent form.

"Roahn," the turian murmured. "I can't even pretend to understand your pain. But I can understand your anger. I know exactly what it is that drives you. Almost too well."

_Is that so?_ Roahn nearly uttered out loud, but decorum thankfully prevented her curiosity from becoming voiced with such inappropriate sarcasm. Would it be crossing the line if she simply asked him to be more specific? Or did she think that the truth would be better left unsaid because she might not want to hear it?

Instead she raised a hand and made a fanning gesture. "The more I talk about Aleph, the more insidious he becomes in my mind."

"All right, then we won't talk about him," Korridon stepped forward at the edge of the platform, now alongside Roahn. "Is there anything else you would rather discuss?"

At this point Roahn would have found the topic of paint drying to be a wonderful subject to approach, but because she was in front of the drive core, her mind naturally found itself sifting through engineering pathways, locating suitable strands of conversation to utilize.

"The Tantalus drive," she gestured to the heart of the machine. "I've always wanted to see one in action—now that I'm on a ship with one I can say that I've crossed off a bucket list item. The closest I've ever gotten before was when I visited the _Normandy_ back on the Citadel. How have you found working with it?"

Korridon gave a one-shoulder shrug as he stared up at the core. "First one I've ever worked with. The old _Normandy_ schematics were declassified years ago, but most of the operating manuals for the Tantalus drive were based around suppositions rather than facts. After all, not many people had actually gotten the experience to work with one before and it was built by Cerberus initially, which made getting the documentation all the more difficult, what with it being an extremist group and all."

"Looks like the drive is about the same size as the SR-2's."

"I'd wager the dimensions are identical. The _Menhir_ is a slightly smaller ship but it's a gunboat as opposed to a straight stealth frigate. That means there are more protrusions upon the frame that would otherwise emit heat. The more surface area, the bigger the core needs to be. After all, this is the one thing that makes the _Menhir_ truly special as opposed to most other ships. The drive enables us to move without heat-emitting thrusters and it generates the mass effect fields around the ship, which encases the ship in a bubble of space-time and makes FTL possible…"

"You're drooling," Roahn wryly quipped as she crossed her arms while leaning her back against the guardrail. Coolant mist rose around her body from below, surging up the grates and wrapping her in an ethereal embrace.

Korridon took a needed breath. "Sorry," he grinned sheepishly. "Talking about this stuff gets me all excited."

"No, no," Roahn laughed. "I was just teasing you. I take it your expectations have been exceeded from working on such a drive?"

"In some ways," Korridon turned around as well, with the core now at his back. "But there's always room for improvement."

"Improvement? On a Tantalus drive?" Roahn's expression was so apparent beyond her visor that Korridon could just tell by the tone of her voice that she was arching an eyebrow—not in harsh skepticism, but mild interest. "Explain."

"Well… I've only started to do a little research so I can't say for certain…"

"_Argh!_" Roahn threw her head back. "You're killing me, Sidonis. You can't just drop a bombshell like that and not explain your reasoning!"

"All right!" Korridon nodded. "But bear in mind, what I'm suggesting is all theoretical."

"That's generally how these ideas start out, you know."

The turian narrowed his avian eyes at her. "So, I was thinking, you know how the _Menhir_ has several variants of thrusters? Sublight, control, and FTL?" After Roahn nodded, he continued. "The _Menhir_ is a warship, and like all warships, it has warship thrusters. These are very different than the universal standard thrusters that are on vessels from yachts to capital cruisers. They're different because, instead of using refined hydrogen as the propellant, the _Menhir_ injects antiprotons into a reaction chamber with the hydrogen to produce enormous motive power."

"Hence why they're called 'antiproton thrusters'," Roahn offered.

"An unimaginative name, in my opinion," Korridon said. "Anyway, the resources to make this propellant does not come cheaply. It is expensive and time-consuming to make the antiprotons. Which is why the _Menhir_ possesses traditional hydrogen propellant tanks that that provide the thrust through uncontested and safe areas. To save on fuel economy, you know? But this means that our fuel burn rate is considerably lower to that of our maximum financial threshold—our fuel budget, essentially. Really lower, in fact. To that end, I think we can vie for finding a happy medium between our total fuel economy and our speed."

Interested, Roahn tilted her head. "Go on."

"Well, I have yet to make the calculations, but I'm positive that there is a threshold in which we can afford to worsen our fuel economy but increase our average speed along the way. What I think—and I can confirm with Sagan on this—is that we find a sort of timing in which we alternatively engage the antiproton thrusters and the sublight thrusters in a way that allows for a slight speed increase while using up a fraction of our antiproton reserves."

Roahn had to admit, the logic behind the theory made sense. She had harbored a curiosity for starships for her entire life—the _Normandy_ being her absolute favorite ship in existence—and thus had a mind for the physics of spaceflight. What Korridon was proposing certainly seemed sound, though Roahn figured there had to be a few factors that the turian had not mentioned yet, like trying to determine if switching between the two fuels would put a strain on the ship's fueling systems or whether it was necessary at all to travel at increased speeds when traveling below the speed of light on regular reconnaissance missions, but she assumed that Korridon had to have taken those factors into consideration and was most likely just eager to share his theories with her, which she appreciated.

"With ideas like yours it's a good thing we have you here instead of on combat ops on the ground," she said admiringly.

The turian gave a slight shudder. "For good reason. I'm a horrible shot."

"_What?_" Roahn impishly chided. "But you were in the service!"

"That is not an endorsement of my skills as a marksman," he pointed out.

"Have you not picked up a gun since then?"

Now that, Korridon had to have a genuine think about. "I don't… think so? Not to my recollection, I'd say. After you guys handed me my new orders, I didn't think I'd be needing to use one again."

"Well, we still have to keep your skills sharp!" the quarian gave the thin turian a prod in the ribs with her metallic elbow. "Engineer or no, I want the crew at their best."

"You're _that_ dedicated to my improvement?" Korridon smirked, as if he found the attention too good to be true.

Roahn levelled a finger straight at his chest. "Damn right, I am. You're with Umbra, Korridon, and we don't settle for anything less than your full capabilities. Tomorrow morning. Shuttle bay. Target practice, you and me. And that's an order."

"Okay, but I warn you, I'm most likely a worse shot than you think I am."

"This won't be a competition, Korridon. I don't care if you're as good as me, or worse, or better. All I care about is if you are as good as you _can_ be."

Korridon straightened up and made a gracious gesture after it looked like he was going to lightly argue some more. "I think that you'll find me a willing victim, _commander_."

"Glad to hear it," Roahn said, not bothering to correct him.

* * *

Roahn had some free time before she was going to see to her more administrative duties, so she took a few spare moments to head up one level above the engineering bay to the crew deck. The cook, Amelie, was busy attending to the slated meals for the dinner hours and she greeted Roahn by her title, accompanying it with a warm nod. A few crewmembers sat around the tables—it was off the usual dining hours so the amount of foot traffic at this point in time was negligible.

She was about to head over to the main battery when she saw Sam walking towards the exit through the windows of the med bay. Whirling on a heel, the quarian moved to intercept him, cutting a straight path through the dimly lit interior, with bars of silver light wrapping around her head in thick haloes.

"Hey, Sam," she said, catching the man's attention.

"Hello, Roahn," the doctor similarly greeted. He had a tired look upon his face and he was fiddling with a datapad stylus in a hand, twirling it between his fingers while he walked. "Need anything from me?"

"I was actually wondering how Skye was doing," she tilted her head over where the woman was presumably laying. Despite her personal feelings, she still possessed a responsibility over the people she commanded.

Sam's face flattened before he suddenly took on an unexpectedly morose look. Immediately, Roahn felt a spike of apprehension pierce her throat.

"Oh… you mean no one's told you yet?" he spoke lowly. "She's _dead_, Roahn. From complications with her injury."

There was a microsecond of abject horror before that faded like a mirage, quickly replaced by an exasperated annoyance.

"Sam," Roahn sighed, "do you know what it feels like when someone punches you really hard in the middle of your face?"

"Actually, I _do_ know what that feels like," Sam admitted, though he allowed a sliver of amusement to slip through the veneer he had constructed for himself.

"How has your sarcasm not gotten you killed yet?"

"You'd be surprised as to how close it has gotten me to that point."

Roahn had to fight to withhold her growl as she forced herself to evenly point in the direction that Sam had just came from. "I take it she's still in there, yes?"

Sam shrugged. "Unless Skye managed to slip through the door when neither of us were looking—"

"_Keelah_," Roahn nearly clutched at her head as she shouldered past Sam to head through the med bay doors. "Forget it."

Ancestors knew she was extraordinarily fond of the man—she had known Sam long enough for him to nearly be an extension of her family—but when he slipped into his caustic moods he could be almost method with his adherence towards making everyone lose their minds from sheer irritation. The human had to be deriving some modicum of pleasure by being so deliberately sardonic, otherwise he would not bother. Though she did have to admit, when she was not on the receiving end of Sam's carping, she did find aspects of it to be humorous.

Her dissatisfaction dissolving with every step she distanced herself from the doctor, Roahn regained her composure by the time she reached the bed upon Skye was reclining. The human woman had changed into more casual wear, a thin blanket pulled loosely up to her waist. Her eyes were fluttering open drowsily, though she seemed to waken when she saw Roahn entering.

"Come to spring me from the doctor's domain?" Skye asked as Roahn pulled up a chair.

"Why?" Roahn asked. "Getting antsy?"

"Oh, you know, he's imposing his medical privileges on me. Keeping me confined to this bed for a few more hours just to make sure I'm all right."

"And? Are you? All right, I mean."

Skye raised her hands to the ceiling, adopting a guise of extreme impatience, her red hair sprawled in a mess underneath her head. "I'm rearing to go here, Roahn. My flesh wound is fine, practically healed. Honestly, I have no pain. Just my luck to have half a day of bedrest imposed on me for taking one round—_one round!_—to the side."

"Hey, maybe this will convince you to try ducking as a strategy in the future," Roahn offered.

Skye stuck out her tongue. "Now you're sounding a lot like Sam."

"Damn," Roahn wilted. "Am I?"

"Yeah, he actually said the same thing to me earlier."

This left Roahn in a state of aggravated befuddlement upon considering that her sense of humor and Sam's were not all that far off. The notion that she could very well be making a stream of constant acerbic quips upon getting older was not exactly filling her with high hopes for the future.

"I do have to admit," Roahn said, "half a day's bedrest is kind of a long time for something as simple as a wound like yours."

"Well…" Skye chewed her lip, "I might have insulted the doctor's music preferences again. I think he's getting a little revenge on me."

"Oh yeah, don't disparage his music, Skye. He doesn't like that. And also, you do know that I happen to be a fan of his favored bands as well, right?"

Skye grunted half-heartedly. "Great. _Two_ of you on board this ship." She rested her head against the pillow and, for perhaps the first time since coming on board, a sober reflectiveness flitted across the woman's features as she stared endlessly out into space. Roahn hung upon the edge of the bed, watching Skye, until the human turned her head back over, finding her own reflection distorted within the quarian's visor. "Why are you here, Roahn? Really?"

The question gave her pause, which made her all the more fortunate her mask obscured her fumbling lips as she searched for an answer, but she knew that Skye could sense the hesitation within her anyway. "Am I not allowed to check in on my crew?"

Skye feigned laughter. "Is that the only reason you're going to give me?"

"I don't know," Roahn said before retorting, "Are you going to act like an adult and just tell me what you want from me?"

"What I want," Skye narrowed her eyes, "is to see if you can recognize the barest sense of what it is you're searching for, because if you can't tell me now, then you either cannot admit it to yourself or you truly have no idea. I'm not sure which outcome is worse."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Lying never suited you," Skye flashed a grin. "I've never been particularly good at it, either. Especially with you."

Roahn's heart was making noticeable thuds, though they were nowhere hard enough to cause her actual anguish. "You're a smart person. I think you can see the possibilities as they come up."

"I think I can as well. But it never hurts to have them confirmed. Besides, I still would like to hear the reason."

"The reason for what?"

"Why you're here."

Roahn slowly recoiled away from the human. "You're relentless."

Skye pulled a grimace as she struggled to sit up, stiffened muscles in her back shouting angrily in protest at having to be utilized so unexpectedly. "I'll help guide you along. When you saw that I had been shot down on that world, what was the first thing that came to your mind?"

"Your attempt at prying something from me is admirable," Roahn smirked through a cool expression. "But if I choose not to play your game, that just leaves you empty-handed."

"That means you do understand where I'm going, yes?"

Roahn rolled her eyes as she crossed a leg upon the chair. "You want me to admit that I was afraid for you down there. That I was worried that your wound might have been more serious. You want me to imply that my initial reaction was not of a commander concerned for her subordinates, but of something deeper and inherently personal."

Skye made a face of accession and gave a half-hearted shrug. "Probably more words than I would have used, but you seem to have gotten the gist."

Roahn could not decide if she wanted to laugh in hysterics or throttle the woman in front of her.

"Skye, I've gotten the gist from the moment you came on board. Keelah, Skye, you're not only forward, you're insufferable. Not to mention completely obvious." Roahn now slowly leaned forward until her head was starting to hover over the edge of the bed. She had the human enraptured in her eyes while her six fingers proceeded to claw at the sheets, betraying her righteous anger. "Because, at the end of the day, your obnoxious machinations are only working against you, for you want to infer greater implications from my actions when, in fact, all I've sought to do this entire time is to treat you with the dignity that you—as a person—deserve. I was not going to venerate you. I was not going to try and patch things up right away, which is what you were _clearly_ hoping that I would do. I was given the opportunity to veto your recruitment on board this ship—and I very well could have—but I didn't because I thought that you were mature enough to put our past behind your job. Clearly, that was a mistake on my part for trusting so easily."

Skye remained silent throughout the diatribe, her face unreadable.

Infuriated, Roahn continued, her hands itching to wave around animatedly. "You see this? All of this? This ship? This is what should be your focus. Not me. Not anyone else. Just your job. You have to be a fucking _soldier_, Skye. You're a _soldier_. You're not a feather-brained dancer from a club, you're a fucking soldier! You walk in here and expect this to be Defender boot camp, eager to resume all those sex-filled romps we had in the dorms, but that time has passed." Roahn's fingers were now spearing into her upper chest, punctuating each word with heavy blows. "_You're_ a professional, _I'm_ a professional, so we should both be acting like our job descriptions. All I want from you is to respect your position… and your rank… otherwise I'm calling a halt to this immediately. And want to know why? Because you're a _fucking soldier!_"

Another beat of silence rose before being destroyed as Roahn finished taking a breath. "You're not here to resume a fling. I'm not going to chase you, Skye, and if you continue to chase me, you'll just end up being disappointed because there's nothing to pursue. I'm not joking when I'm telling you that I'll strongly consider bringing you up for insubordination and undue fraternization if you don't stop this aggressive behavior. You know me well enough that I'm not bluffing. When you show me that you're mature enough to hold a dignified conversation and that you can do your job without protest, then… _then_… we might be able to talk."

The intricate acoustics of the med bay swallowed Roahn's final verbal punctuation, leaving the two drowning in a noiseless vacuum. Roahn had stood from her seat by this point, her head obstructing a light fixture which left the front of her body in a perpetual shadow, with only the glowing motes of her eyes allowed to punch through the myopia while the harmonious blinking of her vocabulator silently chimed a melodious rhythm.

The quarian stilled herself, her breath freezing in her lungs, waiting for Skye's response. The human was still keeping careful control of herself as she considered the harsh words Roahn had levelled at her for her to interpret. She chewed her lip again and considered the floor, the walls, and the ceiling before finally settling back upon Roahn, finding an aggravated and impatient audience.

"So…" she was able to say, "…I now know the reason why you came here."

Violent slants shaped Roahn's eyes and she surged away from the bed sourly, as though as it radiated enough heat to scald her body. She made a loud huff of indignation and stormed out from the med bay in a hurry, seeing nothing but melted crimson hues that dripped across her vision.

There was no attempt from Skye to call out to her, to try and convince her to stay. There was nothing that could be said that would root Roahn where she had stood. The quarian had finally reached her limit in dealing with the human, frustrated beyond all belief at Skye's conduct.

Multiple synonyms describing Skye's vexatious behavior pounded in a heavy train through Roahn's mind. None of them were particularly flattering. It felt to Roahn like her head was about to split open, all because Skye could not find the humility to look within herself and see that what she was doing was the most irritating, the most enraging, the most aggravating sort of demeanor that she could possibly possess. No modesty. No meekness. And certainly no decency!

Roahn sought temporary refuge within the ship's elevator, desperately wanting to escape in order to quell the raging storm inside her head. The elevator provided a welcome sanctuary—it was a small area, its existence clearly defined by the walls lining its interior, and no other beings were currently present within. A perfect place to guarantee a few needed seconds of utter aloneness and serenity, with only the whirring of the lift and the tender throb of the drive core acting as the harmonious soundtrack to accompany her travels between floors.

As she stood within the center of the lift, Roahn expanded her arms, wing-like, and took a massive inhale. A mineral tang from her air filters permeated the oxygen that entered her lungs. The effort made her weak in the knees. Spots appeared in the back of her eyes. She wobbled unsteadily and felt slightly faint.

Roahn spread her stance and clenched her fists, her eyes tightly shut.

It was fortuitous that the lift had no windows on the doors, for if someone were to peek inside, they would have spotted the quarian proceed to shockingly pummel the far side of the enclosed space with her prosthesis in a whirlwind rage of emotions, leaving a series of thick dents embedded in the plating.

* * *

_Morningtide_

A towering block of red light cast a section of the great hall ablaze—sunlight so thick that it seemed to have a heavy weight upon it. It seeped in through the lone and mighty window, pushing in as though carrying the light was an effortful achievement.

But the light from the sun was bound to the borders defined by the loping shadows that danced within the ship. The interior of the _Morningtide_ devoured the sun's luminescence. Sharp edges rimmed from the window acted as territory markers, ensuring that none of the searing hues of cherry and rust extended from beyond their position upon the floor where the brightness fell. The featureless tiles engorged themselves on the sun's brilliance, darkness so profound that no further blackness could be defined.

Before the window, extending a gravity and border of his own, Aleph stood in utter silence. The ship was close enough to the red giant that he was able to observe the eddies of the superheated hydrogen gases flowing and foaming down in the raging seas below. Pale starlight tried to creep around the edges of the sun, but the red giant, in its last throes of life, was expelling its fuel at an alarming rate, making itself the brightest object in the sky for several million lightyears. The window itself was tinted to let in only five percent of the sun's light to reach inside the Morningtide, but it was still bright enough to make Aleph's reflective helmet look like he was drowning in bright, boiling blood.

A solar flare erupted from the cosmic body, streaming fingers grasping towards cold outreaches. Aleph watched the phenomenon without a word, the ragged and beautifully bright ring mirrored upon his covering. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, dark cloak still, his thoughts unknown but, to the outside observer, most likely stemming towards the wondrous and simple design that had been imposed upon the universe.

Aleph seemed to be in a trance, awed at the spectacle of the red giant, to the point where he was able to drown out the erupting screams that were being emitted not too far away in another part of the hall.

It was the wail of the damned.

Below the shallow steps that ascended to the window, a pleading figure—a human male—had been flattened to a pale bench, the spider-like form of the Cardinal hovering over them. The captive had been stripped of clothing from the waist up, with the discarded trappings scattered upon the floor near the bench. The occasional glint that exuded from the Cardinal's chassis revealed scraps of coloration that defined the removed armor—blue and gold—accompanied by an officer's insignia on one of the pauldrons. The markings of a Zero Sum commander.

The Cardinal's many arms set themselves upon the restrained man, poking, prodding, and peeling at his body. The cyborg reached down with two limbs, pinched at a thin epidermal layer upon the man's abdomen, and used a laser scalpel to make a quick and narrow incision. She then pulled upon the part of skin that she had taken—giving it a firm yank. The top layer of skin peeled apart from the man's body, leaving behind a sensitive and wet red slab of meat that throbbed and burned. This also produced a fresh slew of screams from the prisoner. Blood and pus dribbled from the wound, seeping down the man's side to join the sticky pool that mingled below his body. As the light filtered and swirled, many similar wounds could be seen upon the Zero Sum commander's chest and stomach—vermillion lines all oozing blood branches, coiling around him like stripes.

Dangling the now freed strip of skin above the man, the Cardinal's opaque face appeared to be studying it as simply a piece of meat. The Delphian aspects of the cyborg's contortions were doubly so to the captive, who, nearly delirious from both pain and starvation, looked up at her with bleary eyes, his mien fully subservient if not a bit befuddled.

"The miscarriage of your services has left much to be desired," the Cardinal hissed, her glowing diodes of cobalt glittering like jeweled stars in the darkness. "The breadth of your failure has enraged our lord. You were well aware of his desire to avoid further setbacks… yet your errors have introduced an unfortunate pattern of transgressions from your company. It is disturbing and that is why you are being punished."

"I…" the man wheezed in a confused manner, his stomach erratically rising in pained breaths, "…did… nothing… wrong. _Please_… you must… believe me…"

"It is simple for you to imagine your conduct as being set in line with your given mandate. But that has not been the case. You have wasted time and effort. There is only one thing you possess in which a transaction would settle your debt."

Even now, the commander's face still had the ability to grow more fearful. "I did… everything that he asked," he pleaded. "I told him about… the colony on Ratinena. I told him what they had down there. My men… they _saw_ the artifact. They reported it to me! They confirmed its existence! And you… you went and retrieved it! Tell me… what did I do wrong?"

The quiet announcement of steady footsteps and an almost imperceptible hum drew the man's gaze, now suddenly aware that Aleph was standing over the bench he was restrained to. The human's eyes seemed to shrink in their sockets and he became nothing more than a limp sack of flesh surrounding a skeleton in that instant. The mirrored visor saw everything, but the wearer had the uncanny ability to direct his attention, make it known, without saying a word.

Aleph raised a hand, an object clutched between armored fingers. The man recognized the glass-like construction and the tentacle design of the artifact that the being held. The light swirled upon the object's sprawling and tiered surface, spiraling up the smooth and delicate sides. It had been the very same item Aleph had taken from the colony.

But Aleph slowly rotated his wrist and let the object slip from his palm with a painful deliberation. The man's eyes tracked the descent of the artifact and made a drowned gasp as it met the floor and obliterated itself to pieces in a high-pitched crash. Obsidian shards sprung in all directions, roughened and jagged. The light from within exploded in a silent conflagration before being consumed by the _Morningtide's_ darkness—a short-lived charge upon a gloomy night.

As the man helplessly continued to stare at the destroyed obelisk, Aleph spoke, "**Had that been one of the pieces that I had sought, I would not have been able to do **_**that**_**."**

The Zero Sum commander was dumbstruck for a few more moments as the gears started to turn in his head. "It… was a fake?"

"**A simpler explanation was that it was never meant to deceive in the first place. It was nothing more than a trinket, brought to that world by one of the colonists as an heirloom. You simply mistook it for something far greater."**

"That can't be," the man trembled. "I was told it was what you had been looking for."

"**And yet, the proof stands before you**." Aleph kept the man's visage trapped within his own mirrored expression, allowing the captive to appraise his own fear. **"Your adamant confirmations were based upon erroneous and hasty reports from your subordinates. The results of which have caused me to waste my time venturing down to the surface of the world to secure the useless bauble, whereupon I encountered an opposing force along the way. A surprising presence, admittedly unexpected."**

"O-Opposition?" the man choked out, now trying to flinch away as one of the Cardinal's barbed appendages was inching closer to his eyeballs tauntingly. "But… but… surely no one can stand up to you! You're more powerful than anyone else in this galaxy!"

"**In this case, any resistance that might cross my path is irrelevant. It was anticipated that my actions would be detected eventually. All is merely proceeding according to plan. No adjustments need to be made to conduct the Tranquility. For the moment, we are still on schedule."** Aleph did not seem to derive any pleasure from the Cardinal's torturing of the man, especially when she started gouging a thin series of lines upon the human's cheek, drawing forth more blood. **"No, you have only garnered my displeasure from your adamant assurances that my presence on Ratinena was deemed necessary. As a result, I expended extraordinary amounts of energy to eliminate the colonist presence upon the world's surface, energy that was consumed at great effort and required significant amounts of time and patience to accumulate. And in a few seconds, you had me waste that time and patience from your inaccurate and reckless observations. I can only use that energy sparingly—my power level is still not great enough to achieve the macro scale I've envisioned for years. This is where my disappointment lies, do you understand? This is the direct effect your setback has created."**

Without waiting for an answer, Aleph turned away and strode from the bench, walking directly into the dense myopia perpetuated by the interior of the enormous ship. In a few seconds, he returned, a heavyset case in his hands. Large hands undid the locks and the clasps before he reached inside and withdrew what looked like a pylon made out of a polished cristobalite. But whereas any sculpture made out of an obsidian-like material would normally possess a rainbow striping sheen, the surface of the notched spear was barren of any imperfections.

Aleph held the pylon up so the man could have a look at it. Etched into the miniature column was a series of hemispherical carvings, some so deep they nearly seemed to reach the other side of the minaret. Upon taking sight of the object, the captive was now able to perceive just the barest chill at the back of his jaw, little needles nipping at his sensitive gums. His mind tickled with the makings of a slight headache, but this discomfort went largely unnoticed due to the agonies already inflicted upon his body.

Watching the commander's reaction, Aleph nodded as he let the case drop to the floor, now holding the pylon in both hands. **"Now you understand. Therein exists an exigency embedded in the very fabric of this matter. It is one that does not require your complete senses to be comprehended. It is what others under my employ have managed to discover and bring to me, a task in which you failed in. Pieces strewn from all over the galaxy—this particular one from your very homeworld. They are what form the foundation for my Monolith."**

Aleph backed up as the vivid rectangle of crimson light began to crawl along the floor—the _Morningtide_ was turning. The encroaching boundary of luminescence soon met the base of a tall object positioned upon the tallest point of the shallow dais. Previously hidden by the shadows, the light revealed more and more of the enormous object. Three meters tall, rectangular, blank as a fresh sheet of paper, black as volcanic soil, and whispering with a dark purpose, the pillar of night commanded the attention of everyone in the room as all eyes fell upon it with an esteemed reverence. The captive felt voices tug at the edge of his ear—the violently dark block seemed to throb with a low surge of scarlet power and insidious intent.

The cloaked man strode up the wide steps, the artifact seemingly humming in his hands as he moved closer and closer to the Monolith. Soon Aleph was inches away from the construct of his own making. Endless storm clouds enveloped his mirrored helmet, creating an infinite singularity upon which his head seemed to turn invisible against the charred and seamless face of the material that was not quite stone, not quite metal, but some material in between.

Individuals with more pious intent would most likely have bent their head or revealed some oblique gesture that would otherwise indicate their fealty to the Monolith. Not Aleph. He stood unbent and defiant, for the Monolith was of his creation. Others could fear it, but that fear was not reserved for him.

In an instant, Aleph shot out his hand, the pylon clutched in a fist, and smashed the object against the void-like surface of the obelisk. There was a crack like a lightning bolt and the room turned the color of spilled wine. As Aleph mashed the pylon against the unbroken surface of the Monolith, tiny red tendrils of electricity crept out from the dark portal, grasping the artifact and seemingly hugging it closer. The branches of energy slithered their way up Aleph's hand, enveloping his forearm in the flickers of ignited matter, but this did not elicit any flinches of pain, any sounds that would otherwise indicate discomfort.

The pylon now seemed to sink further and further into the Monolith's abyss. It was as if the shadows had turned solid, hungry and devouring. There was a sonic ripple from the tall monument as the savage electric bolts dragged the pylon deep within itself. As the cylinder finally disappeared, assimilated into the Monolith's very form, a dark maroon pulse beat once from within, illuminating intricate highways and channels buried underneath the surface, much like arteries or circuits.

His deed finished, Aleph stepped away from the Monolith without fanfare and approached the captive man for a third and final time. His empty hand was outstretched, fingers grasping like claws. The man began to whimper as he implicitly understood what was to come.

"No… no…"

Aleph seemed to comprehend this for a moment and, after keeping himself statuesque, finally dropped his hand.

"**Perhaps you are correct. It would be a waste to utilize its power upon you. There is no reason to expose you to an elegant finish."** Aleph turned to the Cardinal, finality radiating from him in waves. **"Conclude your work, then dispose of the body."**

"As you wish," the Cardinal bowed her head to the departing back of Aleph. Once his presence had withdrawn from hers, she looked down upon the restrained man, a noise reminiscent of a cruel laugh bubbling from a nonexistent throat. "Ah, if only we could share more time together. But fear not, your expiration will merely serve to indicate just how pliant you humans can be."

Before the captive could protest, the Cardinal shot two of her thin arms out and quickly inserted themselves into the man's mouth, forcing it open. The human screamed and gagged, but the most amount of noise was limited because he was gurgling on his own spit. The Cardinal did not force her arms down the human's throat, but was instead gradually forcing his mouth wider and wider, the hydraulics softly hissing as the jawbone was reaching its absolute limits.

Eyes wide underneath the snow-colored cyborg—muddled gray and burgundy from the sole light stemming from the red giant's glare—the human made muffled moans of pain as the arms spreading his jaw traveled further and further, horrible clicks emanating from the friction of teeth upon metal. The jaw began to quiver as it reached the terminus that the ligaments holding it in place could travel. This did not deter the Cardinal, for she kept applying more pressure, more force.

There was a sharp snap and a piece of tooth sprang out from the man's mouth like it had just been shot from the barrel of a gun, chipped free from extensive forces pressing down upon it. Blood welled from the ruined nerve and man continued to make useless pleas, his words failing him.

In that instant, both the Cardinal and the man understood one another very well.

With a final, surging jolt of movement from the cyborg, her arms sprung apart by a few more millimeters. But this was the final effort that ended it all. There was one last cry before an earsplitting crack echoed through the main hall. In a rush, the man's jaw let go and his head appeared to split in two. Blood and spittle momentarily fizzled into the air in a dirty mist, shards of teeth clattering upon the ground.

The Cardinal stood above the corpse, satisfied with her handiwork.

* * *

**A/N: It was about time that Roahn received a majority of the chapter all to herself, don't you think? Also, we've finally name-dropped the Monolith within the story! What does the Monolith do, exactly? Heh, you know the only answer I'll give you guys: stand by to find out!**

**Playlist:**

**Flashback: Roahn's Workshop**  
**"Secret Room"**  
**Thomas Newman**  
**Spectre (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Roahn Speaks to Her Creation**  
**"I Put That Away"**  
**Max Richter**  
**Ad Astra (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Roahn's Ultimatum/Skye's Silence (Roahn Theme Occurrence)**  
**"I Feel Responsible" (UNRELEASED TRACK)**  
**Hans Zimmer, Jasha Klebe, Bryce Jacobs, and Martin Tillman**  
**Rush (Complete Motion Picture Score)**

**Aleph Ruminates/Monolith Reveal**  
**"Once, There Was An Explosion"**  
**Ludvig Forssell**  
**Death Stranding (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	16. Chapter 16: Too Many Disclosures!

"_Fuel now costs credits in this game. Why? While being part of a rogue paramilitary group has its benefits, unfortunately its infrastructure is not robust enough to allocate a limitless fuel budget for the Normandy. Gas now comes out of your pocket. Better get used to hypermiling."_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_Menhir__  
Cargo Bay_

The portable table, light enough to be carted with a single hand, unfolded with a quick series of clicks and snaps, and Roahn placed it smack dab in the middle aisle of the cargo bay, just a few meters in front of the elevator door. Upon it she spread several boxes of thermal clips, a couple cleaning cloths, some fine-toothed brushes, and an assortment of several pistols to choose from. The weapons ranged in both the hues of the materials that made up their construction and both their origin, for they spanned nearly every quadrant of the galaxy in their own unique design. Some were utilitarian and boxy. Others were curved and looked like they were molded out of smooth and polished polymer.

To Korridon, who had been silently watching Roahn set up, she now turned and gestured towards the table where the handguns rested. "Take your pick. Any that match your comforts?"

A hand on his chin, the turian looked at the displayed weapons in such a disoriented manner that it almost seemed like Roahn had laid out an ancient tome written in old Khelish for him to decipher. "I was never afforded with the privilege of preference," he admitted. "I always just took what the armory was handing out. What do _you_ usually prefer?"

"Me? Well, I prefer the Paladin, myself." Roahn selected a cloud-white model from the bench and performed a quick weapons check on it by racking the slide back halfway to check if a thermal clip was locked in the barrel, which it was not. "But this is probably not the weapon for you to retrain yourself."

"Why not?"

"For starters," Roahn explained as she momentarily set the weapon down, "it's not the best pistol for turian hands. I like the Paladin because it fits my contours a little better, but the biggest reason is that it has quite a bit of recoil with every shot. It'll put a huge strain on your wrists if you're not used to shooting. But, if you just want to focus on the fundamentals, why not try a Predator?"

Roahn slid over a rugged looking pistol, its design quite angular and no-nonsense. This was a gun not meant to draw stares. It was meant to do its job of levelling shot after shot and to do it faithfully. Korridon took the pistol after Roahn performed the same weapons check on it that she had just done on the Paladin.

While Korridon weighed the feel of the gun in his hands, Roahn kept rattling off bits of trivia. "Turian-designed, probably the most reliable pistol made today. A hefty clip size and it's lightweight. Perfect for experts and beginners."

"Your word as a professional?" Korridon asked as he lightly thumbed the slide, getting his reflexes back in check.

"A _diversified_ one, at least," Roahn shrugged.

The quarian then touched a control on her omni-tool and, all the way across the bay, a singular round and ringed target, made entirely up of blue light, materialized from thin air. The target hovered over the ground at chest height, impassive of the laws of gravity.

Roahn made sure to take furtive glances towards the sides of the bay before she made any new moves. She had made sure to reserve this block of time when the action down in the cargo bay was at its lowest. There were no crewmembers down here to disturb them. The shuttle that sat off to their right quietly waited, its engines dark while growling red glimmers of lighting from the exposed piping furrowed in like the glow from a wildfire. Crates of supplies, weapons equipment, and other crew materials were positioned patiently to their left. The steady hum of spaceflight gave the deck the slightest vibration, merely discernable if one was to flex their mind and open it up to the barest perception.

After stepping over an industrial light cable, white illumination being thrown up under her chin, Roahn then gestured for Korridon to take his place at the center of the table.

"The guns are loaded with practice rounds," she assured the turian. "Don't worry about damaging the ship."

"It's my _pride_ I'm more worried about," Korridon dryly chuckled. He then squared his stance and slowly brought his pistol to eye level. That was a start, at least.

Roahn made sure to give Korridon a wide berth during his shooting period. She remained quiet, her hands politely folded in front of her (producing a faint stimuli in her head as her remaining limb touched the fingers of her prosthesis) while she waited for the turian to proceed. It was crucial that she not provide any distractions for the man—it would only worsen his performance and would undoubtedly skew the results.

Then again, perhaps it might not have mattered if the two had kept up a conversation throughout the exercise, because once Korridon finally fired his pistol (a well-prepared Roahn not even jumping from the explosiveness of the gun's report), the quarian had to squint hard to find the yellowed icon that would have indicated a hit upon the target. But, to her bemusement, she could not see anything upon the hologram from her position. Unless her vision was going by the wayside, it seemed that Korridon had not been exaggerating when he had proclaimed his own shooting as abysmal, but to miss an entire target from this distance? This defied any definition.

Roahn had to resist the urge from making a hushed comment of disappointment.

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Roahn grimly made a few notes as she watched Korridon slowly whittle down his clip with each trigger pull. As each blossom of fire and noise protruded from the pistol's barrel, the turian's arms would shoot up as though he had just been whipped. Roahn did not have the strength of a krogan but she knew that it did not _require_ the strength of a krogan to handle the recoil of a Predator, especially when she could handle something as powerful as a Paladin with comfort.

A few yellow dots occasionally ticked their way upon the hologram as Korridon's shots miraculously found it. Minor victories, at least. The placement of the shots was scattered, random, and not at all lined up on target. Every once in a while, Korridon would make a mark on one of the rings closest to the center, but he had to have known that such occurrences were more the product of luck rather than skill.

By the time the slide finally clicked open on the Predator, Roahn was bursting at the seams with enough comments to fill a novel. At least Korridon had the sense to realize the sort of job he just did, as his bashful expression was certainly telling.

"I did say that I was going to be a little rusty," he defended.

"'Little' being the operative word," Roahn nodded as she observed the hastily pockmarked target at the other end of the bay. "How did you ever survive boot camp?"

"Hey," Korridon pointed out, matching Roahn's wryness beat for beat, "I actually didn't do _that_ bad during those days." He then appraised the ceiling as he thought some more. "Okay, so my marksman scores were still pretty crap back then. I always had the lowest shooting scores and I think that it was my acumen for other areas that kept me in, otherwise I'm pretty sure that I would have been kicked out in my first week."

"I guess we now have an idea of where to go with you from here," Roahn said. "I will say that you got some of the fundamentals right. Squared stance, eye lined up with the sight, good weapon discipline. It's a lot better than training someone who's never held a gun before in their life."

"I'm sensing a 'but' incoming very soon," Korridon sighed.

Roahn let out a small chuckle. "_But_ there are many things that we need to work on. Your grip, for instance. You're holding your gun too lightly—I can see you're not tensing your forearms—and that's causing the pistol to spring up like that every time you pull the trigger."

"Like this?" Korridon raised his arms to replicate what Roahn was telling him.

The quarian tried to push down on the turian's arms and found quite a bit more resistance this time around. "Better. It will certainly help to line you up for the next shot, though I did notice that you're succumbing to a few common mistakes in the process of firing the gun."

"Can't say I'm all that surprised."

"Don't beat yourself up. Everyone makes this mistake as a self-proclaimed novice. What you're doing is using too much of your finger on the trigger. See what I'm doing?" Roahn wiggled her finger upon where it lightly rested against the trigger of her Paladin. "The tip of your finger is all you need. Any more than that and your pull exerts a sideways direction upon the gun."

Korridon nodded, his slit eyes attentive. "I understand."

"I'll take a few shots now to demonstrate." Roahn stepped up behind the table, where Korridon had been standing, and reset the target so that a fresh one now hovered in place. She swiftly lined up a shot and made a light pull upon the trigger, causing a reaction in which the circuitry inside the gun sent an electronic pulse to the mass effect drivers, igniting the microscopic amount of primer and propelling a grain-sized projectile from the gun with the cacophonic fanfare akin to a roaring tidal wave. Her first shot was within the innermost sections of the target (Korridon made a small noise of surprise and admiration behind Roahn, which coaxed out a grin from under her visor). She rapidly emptied the clip and surveyed her handiwork after ejecting the spent heat sink. A cluster of yellow, a new sun, made a fist-sized partition in the middle of the target.

Roahn was all business as she set the Paladin down upon the bench. Korridon's mouth was still ajar, no doubt a bit dismayed at the gulf between their skillsets.

"In my defense," Roahn stated, leaning back as she touched her upper chest, near her collarbone, "I've been firing pistols since I was nine."

Korridon glimpsed the thoroughly defeated target a final time before answering. "I can certainly believe it. Something your father taught you?"

"I had to yank his arm a few times for him to even let me _hold_ a gun," Roahn recalled, unable to help but remember the catalytic moment in which the two of them had been at loggerheads when she was a child, shouting at her dad for supposedly stifling her from her interests in an apparently exorbitant excess of caution. She would eventually come to terms with his point of view over his fiercely protective stance—every time she thought about the far-away memory was painful because she truly regretted at how much anguish she caused her father in that moment. "But he relented in the end. I guess I got what I wished for, for better or worse."

"I know it might sound strange," the turian said, "but I never really had an interest in shooting. Boot camp was the first time I had ever held a gun before."

Roahn thought back to Korridon's hopelessly plugged target and quickly surmised that his excuse had merit.

"You'll notice that I'm not attempting to argue with you there," she pointed out, making sure to let the wryness in her voice noticeably linger.

"I won't deny that I was an anomaly in the service. When service to the state is compulsory for the entire population, it is certainly rare that you'd come across a recruit with no prior weapons history. And yet, despite all that…" Korridon mustered a sheepish shrug.

The quarian tilted her head. "I think I heard somewhere that, for turians, personal interactions during the service, when it comes to bettering one's abilities, are encouraged. I mean, for a species with a great emphasis on personal accountability, as well as the supposed 'strong desire' to better the group along with the individual, that sort of fosters a culture in which one's peers train each other just as much as their superiors do."

"In a sense, you are correct. Whenever someone in the cadre struggles with a particular task, it is the implicit reaction for others to assist in order to bring the outlier into line. If someone was having trouble with their navigation calculations in their studies, for example, the individuals who did the best with those tasks would step in without being asked and try to provide guidance. Of course, guidance tends to come in many forms. Depending on the task, comrades will try to mentor one another through intense information-sharing sessions. Other times, if it's a physical issue or an emotional imbalance, recruits are encouraged to engage in calisthenics. Sparring is the favored coping exercise for the cadets. Well… the _second-most_ favored exercise, I should say."

"Ah, say no more," Roahn said, fully understanding where the turian was going. To distract herself a little bit from that conversation, she returned to the workbench whereupon she proceeded to dismantle the Paladin pistol so she could start cleaning it. "Seeing as you've already professed your… lagging in your marksman skills, I have to wonder, what did _your_ comrades do to help you?"

"Me?" Korridon jostled slightly, as if he could not have expected the conversation to be directed so personally. "I… uh… I did get some tutelage from my cadets, yes. Many of them thought my… er, _problem_ was because of nerves. Many of my female peers did extend offers to help me with that, considering that particular line of thinking."

Roahn hid a chortle in the form of a small bump of her shoulders. The mental image of Korridon being swarmed by turian women was an interesting thing to perceive, the debauchery and other implications aside. Still, it was amusing to give Korridon the moniker of a bone fide ladies' man when he seemed quite the opposite of that label in real life.

"And?" Roahn pressed for her own curiosity as she now slid a brush into the barrel of the Paladin, scouring some of the grit off from the inside. "Did you take any of them up on that offer?" She was not going to press the turian if he did not want to answer, she had already decided. This was starting to get rather personal so she would understand if Korridon did not want to delve too deeply into his life if he was uncomfortable with it.

The turian's fingers fiddled together as he appraised the floor for a few long seconds. "Only one," he softly admitted, as though he was embarrassed to say such a thing.

Roahn nearly threw a muscle in her neck from nearly whirling around and, at the last minute, stifling such a reaction. She did not want to give the man the impression that his behavior was abnormal, but at the same time the restraint on his end was quite a thing to hear about. Although it seemed almost stereotypical to portray boot camp as being a place where young and impressionable cadets were allowed to run wild with their emotions, the truth was that such a portrayal actually had a basis in real life. Roahn's stint in the Defenders was filled with moments like these—cadets hooking up with one another was a practice that was rampant, although technically not encouraged as the very act was against the rules, though it was uncommon that anyone got caught. But with turians, physical relationships, no matter how brief, were practically egged on as a coping device as their constitutions and ingrained devotion to the state were usually strong enough to overcome other inhibitions that would otherwise prove to be a distraction.

"Just one?" Roahn echoed, trying not to sound too incredulous, keeping her tone as conversational as possible.

"Ah, it didn't work out for a variety of reasons," Korridon offered wistfully. "We both misread the situation. I thought she wanted a longer-term thing, but she was only interested in the short-term. We weren't all that compatible in terms of our personalities either, but… I didn't notice that at the time. I was an impressionable kid back then, practically. Any relationship I had then was destined to fail. Would've been nice to have known that at the time. That way I could have gotten a grip on my flaws."

The turian looked like he was about to go on but then he noticed that Roahn had been staring at him attentively for the past half-minute. Something in his face darkened and he turned away, aware that he had been rambling about his personal life in front of his commander.

The quarian then stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand upon the turian's shoulder. Roahn was shorter than Korridon and her knowing eyes kept the man firmly in her view, mirrored upon her translucent prison. "Take it from me, Korridon, there are some flaws that you shouldn't have to fix just to make a relationship work. If someone expects perfection from you, then they're guaranteed to be disappointed."

"You make a fair point," Korridon conceded. "It's just… things are a lot less clearer when you have that kind of tunnel vision placed upon you. You try so hard to please someone yet anything you do is doomed to failure."

"Don't I know it," Roahn groused.

"Why? Which flaws did you have that you thought needed correcting?"

"Apart from the obvious?" Roahn raised her left arm and gave a tiny smile as she saw the turian's expression blanch. It was just too easy to get a reaction out of the man. "There are always little things that need adjustments. The trick is figuring out which ones to leave alone—which are the flaws that define us and which that are more detrimental." Making a conscious effort to lift her hand away from Korridon's shoulder, she reached back over the table and plucked the Predator pistol from where it had been resting. She flipped the gun, offering it grip-first to the turian. "Give it another try."

Korridon glanced at the weapon and beheld it for a time before taking it from Roahn's hand. The quarian stepped away to give him some space. The turian rolled his neck to iron out the kinks as he simultaneously squared his stance. Calmly, he inserted a thermal clip into the gun and slowly brought it up to bear at the newly materialized target.

"Tense those forearms," Roahn reminded him. "Use as light of a force as possible on the trigger. Let it surprise you."

Taking a deep breath, Korridon steadied himself as he brought the sights of the gun in line with his right eye. Tenderly, he tapped his long finger against the rigid trigger, testing the pull and removing all play in the action by pulling on it by fractions of a pound of force. Behind him, Roahn tried to time her breaths to Korridon's, wanting to insert herself into his headspace, to try and emphasize with his own nervousness, to find understanding.

_Go_, she wanted to say, but as soon as the ghost of the word appeared on her lips, she was surprised for the first time today when Korridon finally pulled the trigger.

Roahn did not view the results of the blast. She merely watched as the turian proceeded to handle the recoil of the pistol, watching his fingers to ensure they did not slip further upon the trigger. She only watched his body and mentally jotted down all the improvements she saw to his form.

To her pleasant surprise, there were many.

When Korridon finally set the pistol down after it had ejected the spent slide, Roahn gazed upon the target for the first time and her smile crept wider. Many more yellow hit icons now adorned the sizzling blue face—the grouping was still rather wide and none of the shots had hit all that close to the center, but the fact that the turian had been able to hit the target more than he had in the beginning was undeniable proof that progress had been made. Indeed, this was a start.

The turian blinked, surprised at his own prowess. "I don't think I've ever done that well before," he noted out loud.

Roahn now came up alongside him, chin held high in admiration. "Who's to say this is your limit? I guess now we both have to find out just how far you can go."

"Thank you, commander," Korridon said with a fair bit of humility.

"Turns out it _was_ all in your head, eh? That's enough for today, soldier. We'll pick this back up in a couple days or so. No need to rush things. Go ahead and get some rack. You did well."

Korridon, caught between his instinct to snap a salute to his superior and Roahn's request to keep things informal, stuttered a somewhat crisp nod of his head and he mumbled a goodbye as he headed towards the elevator. Roahn stayed behind to clean up but she noticed, as the turian was departing, that someone else was stepping out from the elevator. Someone whom she figured would not have come over to her presence quite so soon.

Skye and Korridon shared respectful looks as their paths crossed. The human, without breaking stride, made her way over to where Roahn was organizing the procured pistols and cleaning up the spent heat sinks. She leaned against a nearby pillar as she watched the quarian work, who was undoubtedly aware that she had a set of eyes watching her every move.

After Roahn put all of the charred heat sinks into the chute for recyclable materials did she finally lock eyes with the human, fixating her with a baleful stare. "Glad to see you're up and about," she began mildly, her eyes never leaving the human's.

Skye broke the stare first as she gave a careless shrug. "Doc finally released me from his care last night. I _told_ you it was just a flesh wound."

"All the same," Roahn emphasized, "I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah," Skye muttered dryly. "You and me both."

Roahn kept her mouth shut, unsure of where this was going to go. After their last conversation together, she would have understood if Skye had wanted to put some distance between them. After all, the quarian had barely minced words in that encounter. The words needed to be said, like it or not, and though she might have temporarily felt bad about being so blunt, she knew that in the long term that she would come to peace with her choice, if she had not already.

The human edged her hand near one of the pistols that Roahn had yet to put away. "Doing a little early target practice?" she attempted to kick-start the conversation back up.

"I can't see what else this would look like," Roahn said, honestly not knowing if she was being too sarcastic.

"How'd the engineer do? You get him on the ranged weapons yet? I bet that I could probably run circles around him, if you catch my drift."

Roahn felt her eyes nearly roll out of their sockets. Being wounded and then told off had apparently done nothing for Skye's braggadocio.

"_Skye_…" she sighed, unable to find the words.

"What?" Skye shrugged lamely. "I'm just saying. What's wrong with me wondering out loud just how much of a better shot I am?"

The quarian would not be baited so easily. Her unamused gaze provided all the answers that Skye could possibly glean. Roahn kept herself still as she bequeathed her unblinking attention unto the human, narrowing her eyes so that Skye could visibly see the displeasure evident in her posture. What little body language Roahn was conveying was universal enough to be interpreted.

But before Skye could respond, Roahn turned away and went back to cleaning up the cargo bay, her previous chore before the human had barged on in. Skye made a noise of surprise as it seemed like Roahn was ignoring her and her expression visibly fell—Roahn was able to see this out of the corner of her eye. Good. About time that someone wiped that cocky attitude away, in her opinion.

"Roahn…" the human tried, but the quarian continued to disregard her, unwilling to meet her eye as she carried on in her duties. The quarian replaced the boxes of ammo upon the shelves from where she had initially placed them on the table, pushing them in to form a smooth front. Roahn travelled between the workbench and the various stations around the cargo bay, keeping the human at a fair distance.

"Roahn, I just want to…" Skye made another attempt, but Roahn brusquely brushed by her with nary a flicker of recognition.

As much as Roahn could see that her behavior was causing Skye actual hurt, it hardly bothered her one iota. In her mind, Skye had reached the absolute limits of her patience—she could not talk to this woman lest she lose her head like what had happened yesterday. She now picked up the pistols from the bench and walked over to the weapons rack, Skye at her heels. The inserts upon the decorated wall were backlit by an entire panel that exuded a window of white phosphorous light. The shelves carved sections from the light that created a cell effect upon Roahn's visor as she reset the pistols back to their original positions. Behind her, Skye waved an arm in despair.

"Dammit, Roahn," she nearly cried out, "I'm trying to apologize!"

Roahn froze, her fingers still lightly brushing the side of a particular firearm as she slowly trailed them away, continuing to have the array of weapons reflected in her view. She could not see the woman's face from where she was standing, but based on how husky her voice was getting, Roahn had a very good mental image.

"You're right to be angry at me," Skye continued to speak to the quarian's back. "For everything that has happened between us. I get it. I don't blame you at all for how you feel. I used to think that I always had a good handle on my behavior but… for some reason… I've just realized that I've always had a hard time reading you. But that isn't your fault—it's mine." She took a needed gulp of breath. "I've been selfish. I've been disrespectful—to you—and to the rest of the crew. I don't want you to see me like that, Roahn. Despite everything that's happened, the last thing I want is for you to look at me and to see only regret. That's why… I've come down here to apologize. I'm _sorry_, Roahn. This isn't what I want for us."

Roahn did not turn around just yet. She wanted to vividly imagine the contriteness on Skye's face lest she turn around and find it all to be an illusion. Such a combination of words had never tumbled from the human's mouth before. At least not in Roahn's presence. She dipped her eyes as she painstakingly halted her turn, only performing the move once the urge to look upon the woman weighed so great that it became painful.

"I was not going to ask you to apologize," she said, her own voice strangely quiet. "I wouldn't have pressured you to do something you weren't comfortable with."

The human mustered a sheepish look. "We change with age. Maybe you just don't know what I'm comfortable with anymore."

"Evidentially. Even had I known, it still would have felt like I was twisting the knife."

"At least I can _now_ say that I pleasantly surprised you in some capacity."

There was some truth to that. Roahn was actually quite flattered that Skye had managed to find some humility in her situation. The human, from when she had known her, would have taken pride in being the last to admit fault for any transgression. She was headstrong, perhaps too much for her own good. The fact that she had adopted a milder guise did bring a modicum of hope for her, even though it was miniscule.

"In _some_ capacity…" Roahn admitted. She now turned to face Skye directly, a hand tugging at the edge of her _sehni_ while her prosthesis flexed each individual finger painstakingly, exercising her range of motion as a way to cope with the stress. Humbly, she granted her stare unto the human. "I should probably also apologize to you."

Skye blinked. "Whatever for?"

"For being so… curt with you the other day. I piled a lot onto you, when you were in a position where you could not easily resist. I didn't lose my head completely, but… I do feel that I went too far. My anger went beyond appropriateness. For that, I need to say sorry to you."

The human surprised Roahn again by giving a blasé wave of a hand and managing a _don't-worry-about-it_ expression. "Ah, you were just fed up with me, Roahn. Believe me, I understand better than you think. I mean, for all the time I've been here, all I've done was continuously drop obvious hints to you about how I felt when, all along, I've been misreading your intent the entire time. I admit, I was… blinded by how I felt about you and I had the misplaced hope that such sentiments were requited. And… shit… well, now you see just how much I've fucked things up, huh?"

There was a bench near the cargo crates. Both women headed over to it and sat down without voicing their intent, each one sharing the same wavelength. They resided in silence for a few moments, taking in the emptiness of the bay, hearing the distant hum of FTL travel ripple across the hold.

"I won't lie to you and say that I haven't also thought about going back to the way things were," Roahn admitted. "Despite everything I've said… it _is_ enticing."

It _was_ enticing. There was no doubt about that. Even now, Roahn had been struggling with the very notion that, in spite of all that she had said to the human, there would always be a part of her that would not stop caring for Skye. It was impossible not to. Especially when Roahn would be routinely subjected to her own drudged up memories of the two during boot camp—when they were nearly attached to the hip as they protected each other's backs during zero-grav training sessions, as they laughed at their own inside jokes during meals, and when they tumbled this way and that underneath bed covers with their clothes tangled in a combined heap upon the floor—the fight to suppress her own internal wishes was a battle that she could not win.

Skye smiled sadly as she leaned over, her hands clutched in front of her. "But you won't," she guessed. "At least, not yet. I know you, Roahn. You have too much self-respect to betray your values like that."

Slowly Roahn turned, the positioning of her eyes maudlin behind icy glass. "It's true. I don't know if I can trust you."

"I understand and I don't blame you," Skye nodded. "I haven't given you much reason to come to my defense, let alone to try and start things anew. I probably shouldn't expect to be given a chance at what we had, in all honesty. What I can do, though, is to abide by your wishes: to be a professional. You don't need to prove anything to me, but it's evident that I have a lot to prove to you. I'll try to stop being an obnoxious bitch and will respect your stance, no matter what it might turn out to be. If I can at least have _that_ chance, that will be enough for me."

The contriteness that Skye was demonstrating was profound and, admittedly, poignant to Roahn. While it had been the woman's initial confidence that had attracted her to the human, there was something inherently satisfying in realizing that Skye had the ability to perform a little self-introspection. It also occurred to Roahn that the last time she had seen the woman in such a somber state, she had been in the process of declaring their relationship, short-lived as it was, to be finished. Both situations were emotionally trying, though now the women were in much more secure headspaces than before. They were older now, weathered from their experiences.

As Skye raised her hand, a silent offer, to Roahn for her to take, the quarian merely stared at the limb weighing her options in her head. Eventually, Roahn's shoulders minutely bumped in a sigh as she raised her head, her eyes even and calm. "What this is… this promise… it's not enough."

The human's face fell drastically, as did her arm, but before both could droop completely down, Roahn reached out with her prosthesis and clenched Skye's hand gently. Touch-sensitive panels on her palm relayed the heat and barest touches that Skye's hand was emitting, transmitted as neural signals for Roahn's brain to interpret. It felt to her like her arm was a shadow, yet that shadow had a tangible mass and could manipulate the world around it. There was resistance between her fingertips. She held something living there.

Alone in the cargo bay, the maimed quarian held the hand of a human upon that bench, subservient to the cavernous and industrial vista that emitted its eerie silence.

"It's not enough," she repeated to the human before she dipped her chin comfortingly. "But it's a start."

* * *

_Thessia__  
One year after the Reaper War_

_Cirae, replete in her Lieutenant's armor, stepped through the door of the bar to find a dimly seething rabble coagulated within. The cyCurve steel structure erected to provide such creature comforts like drinking and dancing helped in creating a conducive environment for anyone looking to partake in such activities. Speakers from above projected a thumping anthem, wet with bass and light on lyricism. A clutch of young maidens swirled and throbbed in a mass upon a glowing portion of the floor, drink slithering in their systems, lost to the music._

_The asari, uninterested in the allure of the dance, made her way through the crowd, past the bar where a host of bartenders were rapidly pouring drinks of human whisky—a cheap and useful tool for getting intoxicated. Assistants working behind them fetched crates of bottles and smiling hostesses were on standby with ice._

_One of the bartenders noticed Cirae and called to ask for her choice of drink. Cirae was about to refuse the offer, but relented at the last minute and shouldered her way through to the front, her medium-sized armor of onyx and basalt hues enabling her to cut a wide berth. She saw the swill that was the drink of choice for the evening and wrinkled her nose at its stench of ethanol. She pointed to one of the more expensive whiskies that the bar had on the rear shelves and paid for just the one drink with her credit chit. A healthy dram was poured for her—liquid amber concealing a campfire within. Cirae downed the glass in two swallows, which was perhaps a mistake because the drink itself was made to be savored, but Cirae was in a hurry so she only got to experience the blast of smoke, citrus fruit, and brine for only a few seconds. Earthy peat and charred ash lingered on her tongue in a warming blast. She blew out an invisible cloud and upturned the glass, her business at the bar concluded._

_It took another half-minute to reach the far side of the establishment, whereupon her expected contact awaited in a booth over in a shadowed corner. Like Cirae, they were armored, though their outfit was a little more elaborate—salmon scales and golden inlays—not to mention lower cut around the chest. The age did not show around her face, though Cirae knew this was deceptive—the asari she now sat across was almost five times as old as she was._

"_You lingered for a drink," the elder asari stated plainly, no emotion currently present on their face. "I assumed you would be more bound to the urgency you demonstrated in your message to me."_

"_You think that what I'm doing is easy?" Cirae defended as she took her place at the other side of the booth. "If anyone recognizes me in here with you, I'm done, do you understand? Asari command has promised to charge me with treason if I even so much as hint about this to anyone. I could genuinely be executed for this."_

_The other asari did not move a muscle, stone-faced. "Clearly you've thought the consequences through. Breaking a vow is no easy task, lieutenant. Some of us are eternally bound to abide by such boundaries. There's still time for you to walk away."_

"_I can't walk away," Cirae emphasized. "I have to speak to someone about it. If I can't do it publicly, I can at least do it here. Under the table."_

"_Has command made any threat upon your life?"_

"_Only implied. As much… as much as it is painful to say… they managed to buy my silence."_

"_Until now," was the elder asari's dry observation._

_Sighing agonizingly, Cirae craned her head out towards the motley assemblage that were the bar's patrons. She observed the shadowy and demonic outlines as they jerked spasmodically to the beat of the music, harsh creases of lights strobing their forms in endless and distorted caricatures upon the walls._

"_We should have gone somewhere more private," Cirae said._

_In the corner of her peripheral vision, the other asari shrugged. "We are just as much invisible here as we would be in your apartment, lieutenant."_

"_Searching for a face in the crowd is that hard, huh?"_

"_More difficult than you would imagine, yes."_

_Cirae, skeptical, now placed a forearm upon the table that separated them, her streaked purple facepaint accentuating the apprehension that now graced her features. She leaned slightly forward, trying to gauge the true emotions brimming within her companion but found only a cool and reserved exterior._

"_May I ask you a question?" the elder asari spoke up. After Cirae shrugged, she continued, "In spite of all the forces lined against you, you have still managed to find the courage to do what you think is right. But I would like to know why you felt that I was the first person you needed to talk to about this?"_

"_This is an asari problem," Cirae said. "Our problem. If I could go to anyone else, I would. But I need to keep this in-house, otherwise suspicion for this leak will no doubt make it back to me."_

"_I won't betray you."_

"_I know you won't," Cirae reassured. "Besides, if you can't trust a justicar, who can you trust?"_

_The other asari stilled before she moved her head partially into the light exuded by the low-hanging overhead lamp. The glint of ruby-colored jewelry pressed upon scaly skin the color of saltwater caught Cirae's eyes immediately. She blinked her own eyes slowly, to indicate to the justicar, Samara, that she was not a threat._

"_You were once part of the Normandy crew," Cirae stated. "I know that you know the details of the Athame beacon cover-up."_

"_Only the broad strokes," Samara admitted. "I was not present for the revelation at the temple. But I was disturbed when I found out from a professional acquaintance that our people had been hiding Prothean technology for so long."_

_Cirae's brow furrowed in anger. "It was a disgrace," she hissed. "I am ashamed of what our people did. Everyone should be. I am almost envious when I stare out at this crowd—knowing they all remain blissfully ignorant—while I have to live with the knowledge that we kept a beacon from the galaxy, betraying the very laws that we ourselves wrote!"_

"_And I am not arguing with you. I too am also disheartened from the hypocrisy that our government has demonstrated."_

"_But you also see my point of view, don't you? You know of the beacon because of your contacts on the Normandy. I know of the beacon because my squad was the first to step inside the temple after the war. But we can't talk about it to anyone because we are still tied by the fear that doing so will destroy our people. We might cause irreparable damage not just to our government, but to our civilians who want nothing more than to rebuild their lives. After all that has happened to them, to our world, we can't upend their lives again."_

_Samara nodded. "It would not be prudent to take action that rash. But for these transgressions, a desire for vengeance burns."_

_Without another word, Cirae reached inside a pocket and withdrew a data disc and placed it upon the table. She slid it over to Samara, who surreptitiously pocketed it without as much as a glance._

"_I made a deposition of my experiences with the Athame cover-up," Cirae explained. "You'll find a list of names in it. They're all the people that I could determine that had a part in concealing the beacon. Near the top of the list is my old commanding officer: Colonel Eneris. She was a major last year and she was promoted for her assistance in making the cover-up possible. She's not the architect of the whole design, but she was responsible for its action. She's being groomed for the legislature, so I hear."_

"_I see," Samara said tonelessly as a splinter of a strobe light's luminescence flashed across the bridge of her nose. "So what is it you want for me to do?"_

_Cirae looked back and forth cautiously before leaning forward, her voice now deathly quiet. "In-house, remember? The truth needs to come out from the inside, from high up the chain. I need you to… to go to Eneris, to take care of the situation. If we destroy the lie from within the government, we can get a handle on the narrative. We can ease our people into the truth of what we've done before we reveal it to the galaxy."_

"_You want me to convince her to break ranks?" Samara arched what constituted for an eyebrow on her face. "I must warn you that such dialogue is not a tenet that is usually associated with the Code."_

"'_A justicar pledges, unto their dying breath, the defense of the innocent, the punishment of the guilty, and the defense of asari society'," Cirae recited from memory. "'A justicar exemplifies the justness of—'"_

"_I do not need for you to recite the Oaths of Subsumation to me," Samara interrupted, her voice having suddenly grown frigid. "And if you were as well versed in those oaths as I am, then you should be aware that the Code does not allow for me to overthrow those that belong to an existing government. If you are merely trying to manipulate me into performing dark deeds…"_

_Cirae would not be intimidated so easily and she kept her spine rigid as her eyes never left Samara's. "There is no middle ground when dealing with the Code, I realize that. But I know enough about your life, Samara, to see that you have always sought a just cause. I've now given you proof of our people's most heinous crime. You now know the people that are guilty of this injustice. Confront them with their crimes and they will yield to you, a justicar. There is no need for death."_

"_You are merely complicating matters and perturbing me with this information, lieutenant. For a justicar, curiosity is a liability."_

"_Samara," Cirae sighed, resisting the urge to rub her temples, "I didn't want this to be a calling in of favors but you leave me no choice. When you came to me a few years ago for information on your daughter, I combed every single record we had in the archives for even a scrap of data. And when an informant finally came to me about a possible sighting of your daughter on Illium, I wasted no time in relaying that information to you. Evidentially, the tip paid off. You met Shepard, you killed your daughter on Omega. You got what you wanted! I did not contact you today out of selfishness, justicar. I did it because I'm going to go mad if I stay silent any longer. I need to know that I told someone… no matter how small the impact might be."_

_The younger asari had been staring at the table, her head slipping further and further down as she let her trepidation surge away from her in powerful waves. She let her hands rest near dried and sticky puddles of spilled beer upon the metal face, fingers positioned amongst scattered sands of condiments and marred stains from greasy food. The music pounded against her head relentlessly and she closed her eyes to momentarily shut out the noise._

_By the time she opened them, she had regained a semblance of courage and was about to address the justicar again, to continue to delve into the unenviable task of requesting Samara's help. Only when she finally raised her head did Cirae realize that Samara was no longer sitting at the booth across from her. Rather, the space was empty. She was only talking to shadows now._

_Alarmed, Cirae stood from the booth and whirled this way and that, no doubt looking incredibly confused to any passing bystander. Her eyes rapidly scanned the array of heads churning within the establishment, unable to find the wayward justicar._

_The bar was now packed to the brim with people, but never had Cirae felt so alone._

* * *

_The Citadel__  
Governmental Quarters_

Head tilted back, eyes slowly opening, Cirae took in a slow breath as she shook off the last vestiges of her rest. She was seated upright in her chair at her desk in her apartment, the lights off completely, with only the faint trickling outlines of the artificial sun crawling around the edges of her windows. An empty tumbler sat to the side of where her holographic keyboard would normally activate, its contents drained.

The data disc that Miranda had given Cirae ebbed a strong allure to the asari. Currently, it was safely locked away in her desk underneath a mound of official papers as Cirae could think of no other place to store it for the time being. All she had to do was look ever so slightly to the side and she could just visualize it in her mind where it was currently sitting. It weighed upon her consciousness, begging to be viewed.

"_We all have targets on our back now and it won't be an easy endeavor to scour them away."_

The dire warnings that Miranda had levelled upon Cirae had not been forgotten. It was precisely because of the human's worry that the asari had refrained from opening the disc's contents immediately once she had reached her apartment. She had taken a couple of days to think about the consequences of viewing the disc, taking Miranda's advice to heart. Cirae had been assured, after all, that simply viewing the disc would not necessarily make her public enemy number one, but that it contained something so shocking that it would compel her to walk down such a fateful path. It was both enticing and repelling at the same time. She had spent hours on end, pacing back and forth within her apartment, agonizing over whether to view the disc's contents or not. With the way the galaxy was currently going, it was hard not to be fraught with worry.

Cirae had heard rumors, or perhaps had seen too many vids, of these political thriller-type situations in which someone in a position of power (her) received information from an informant (Miranda) and was thus targeted for being part of whatever conspiracy that had been unfolding behind the scenes. At her core, Cirae knew this was total crap and that she had technically done nothing wrong to warrant such a violent response. PMCs were not lining up to break down her door and haul her away for enhanced interrogations right at this moment. People in this day and age did not just "disappear" and have their colleagues not question their absence.

_But… what if?_

Somewhat beyond her own accord, Cirae raised her wrists slightly, allowing the holographic keyboard to appear just below her hands. A vivid screen blinked into existence, automatically routing to her designated home page, awaiting a command.

"The hell with it," she murmured.

Smoothly, she unlatched the desk drawer and, after rummaging around inside it, withdrew the disc. Cirae slotted it into the razor-thin console and directed the cursor to the media playback app. Once inside, she was able to find the new media source and click upon it. No turning back now.

Intriguingly, whatever was on that disc did not start playing immediately but rather directed Cirae to a long menu of video files. So, this was not one single, large video to be played but made up of multiple smaller videos. Miranda had certainly been thorough—there was a lot of data that she had compiled. The asari wondered if the services of an information broker had been utilized to gather all this material. The titles of the files were given jumbled and codified names that meant nothing to Cirae. There was nothing to indicate a particular starting point, so Cirae just moved her cursor to the first file and began to play it.

To her surprise, the clip played immediately. There were no corporate logos or any asinine jingles heralding the introductions. It was straight to business. No fluff involved.

On the screen, a face now appeared. It was a perfectly normal looking face, for a human. No particular features that would make him otherwise stand out. He stared directly into the "camera" with a mixture of resignation and, strangely, a subdued hope. Cirae leaned forward in interest, her hands holding up her head at her chin.

"_You may now provide your vocal signature,"_ a voice off-camera said in a stiff and electronically-synthesized tone.

"_Representative Jason Morris of Earth's 67__th__ district, registering my support for bill C.A. 4453-R,"_ the man said, his voice almost equally as toneless as the other user that requested his dictation.

The image jerked slightly for a fraction of a second—an annotation had appeared at the corner of the screen. Miranda's work again. Cirae clicked on the translucent box and was greeted with a small blurb.

_C.A. 4453-R:__ enables private corporations access to war zones in both passive and active roles._

Below that, the annotation continued for one more line.

_Jason Morris:__ 75,000 credit contribution via Fenno Supply Chain._

Concern crept upon Cirae's brow. This video message was implying that there was communication between a member of the Citadel government and a corporate lobbyist that was clearly advocating for legislature that benefitted private military companies. Cirae remembered that Fenno Supply Chain was one of those companies—a tiny firm based in the asteroid belt near Palaven.

There was something else momentarily threw Cirae for a loop. "How did Miranda know how much he was paid?" she wondered out loud. She had more reasons to be concerned. The threshold for government donations from both individuals and corporations was capped at 50,000 credits. Any more than that was breaking the law, which this video was insinuating.

Then she saw, in the corner of the screen, tiny white block letters tacked on down at the bottom. A timestamp.

Now Cirae realized how Miranda made her revelations. Anyone at any level of government was required to make disclosures on who gave their campaign donations for every quarter of every solar year. The individual _amounts_ that were donated were not required information, so Cirae's theory of Miranda utilizing an information broker—a third party—to fill in the gaps was looking more and more plausible. All Miranda would have to do was match the timestamp in the file with the range of the donation disclosure and she could figure out which company made the contribution. PMCs used a variety of aliases to disguise their functions, but Miranda was probably one of the few people in the galaxy who had a knack for sniffing out the bullshit and cutting right to the heart of the perpetrators involved. If a PMC in any form was on one of those donation lists, Miranda would be able to hone in on it.

The video of the representative had ceased playing, bringing Cirae back to the main menu. Now the seemingly endless list loomed large in her eyes. Were every one of these files—nearly a thousand—all portraying the same thing? With a lump in her throat, she clicked on the next file.

Another similar camera setup of an individual staring directly at the screen. This time, a salarian was front and center.

"_You may now provide your vocal signature_," the computerized voice spoke to the salarian.

"_Heritage Sub-Valatrass Bromik Inoss. Registering my support for bill C.A. 4755-CR."_

More annotations appeared on the screen.

_C.A. 4755-CR__: authorizes private militaries to circumnavigate civilian watchdog groups, placing them under official military jurisdiction.  
__Bromik Inoss__: 63,500 credit contribution via X-V-I Industrie._

The file soon ended its playback. Breath firmly lodged in her throat, Cirae began clicking from video to video, her eyes becoming ever wider as the glow from the screen filled her world with light.

"_Senator Julien Nazches, Iberian Legislature. Registering my support for bill C.A. 4794-VV."_

"_Inoch Delegate Delvian Avkaran, Palaven Commission. Registering my support for bill C.A. 4829-WE."_

"_Conclave Ambassador Taren'Rozas vas Rannoch. Registering my support for bill C.A. 4847-GQ."_

The influx of information was not just contained to the verbal confirmation, in which the synthesized and hidden voice was ever-present in coaxing it out of the cast members. The annotations piled on ever more, now becoming a glossary that elucidated the widespread and rooted corruption that Cirae had now realized was more infectious than she had initially perceived.

_C.A. 4794-VV__: extends the operating radius of private militaries to sectors in defined Council space.  
__C.A. 4829-WE__: places a financial cap on punitive damages garnered by private militaries if they are involved in official campaigns.  
__C.A. 4847-GQ__: removes the non-compete clause between private militaries and any militaries under a provisional government. The number of restrictions from former military veterans has been reduced to allow them to pursue work as contractors for these organizations._

_Julien Nazches__: 86,000 credit contribution via Chimera Corporation  
__Delvian Avkaran__: 102,000 credit contribution via Nestle/DuPont  
__Taren'Rozas__: 51,000 credit contribution via Corv Data_

All the bills echoed their blatant support for private military operations, not to mention that Miranda's data was showing that every single corporation that had made a contribution was either a PMC entirely or they owned one within a mighty conglomerate. There were still literally hundreds of these files that Cirae had to pore through, though she knew that she would feel sick to her stomach before getting through the first twenty. She had been resorted to a silent and aghast shape, slowly shaking her head as the weight of the galaxy made itself known to her.

Cirae then opened another tab as she connected to the extranet, struck by a particular idea. Of the files from all the delegates she had just watched, she grabbed their polling numbers and scoured through them all for the particular data points she sought. Very quickly, she found her answer.

The data from those specific five delegates portrayed an interesting picture. The demographics in their constituencies showcased that the majority of their voting blocs expressed a rather significant rejection of support for PMC operations. Some of these representatives were operating in districts that showed only a 35% portion of support for the PMCs. The closest that Cirae saw, out of her sample of five, was a 47% portion in favor of the lawmaker's stances, which was still a clear-cut minority of the vote.

So, if Cirae was to take this portion of the representatives and assume it was a viable representation of the complete set of data, it would be logical to determine that all of the delegates in this file were deliberately setting laws that were against the wishes of their constituents. All because they were swayed by the promise of extra cash. As if a congressional salary was not enough. This would indicate that reelection was not a priority for these people as they were getting paid enough to cover several years of their gross annual income. Cirae curled her lip in disgust. She felt that she was paid well, not handsomely, but she had enough income to live comfortably without wanting for anything.

There was one more file that she had queued. Cirae figured she might as well play it before she closed the application for the evening. At this point she was now a masochist for this kind of torture. With a lethargic resignation, she set the next video up to play.

An asari now appeared on the screen. This one was older than Cirae—her skin was a deeper shade of purple and delicate petal-like dollops of facepaint splotched her features. She looked lifelessly into the camera, a simmering chill radiating from her very eyes.

Cirae's hand dropped from her mouth in astonishment.

"_Faction Leader Janae Irissa. Galactic Assembly," _the asari said in a monotone._ "Registering my support for bill C.A. 4901-OB."_

There was a whispering beep on the other line. "_Thank you for your support, Faction Leader,"_ the artificial voice said before the video file ended.

The video returned to the main menu before being silently shut off by Cirae in a daze, the newfound silence seemed beat invisible pulses in her head, threatening to tear her apart. Now everything was starting to make sense. The politicking. The constant stonewalling.

Irissa had been paid off by the PMCs to push their legislation.

As Faction Leader, she was responsible for coordinating with all the asari representatives and she was the deciding voice on whether such legislation would be pushed to a vote or be pulled to die an ignominious death.

Which also meant that any pushes for oversight from the more progressive members of the Assembly—like Cirae—could be shot down at her leisure not just because she found a sick sense of fun in asserting her seniority, but she was sticking to a mandate as dictated to her by her corporate handlers.

In that instant, Cirae realized that what she was a part of, the whole interconnected web of governments, was completely rotten to the core. Held on by only fragile threads.

In a daze, she slumped in her chair, her expression frozen in horror as the hours of the evening slipped out of her grip, not that she had a qualified grip on anything to begin with.

* * *

_RRV Sindra__  
En route to Charon Relay_

There was a terrific bang that rippled throughout the hull and the blinding cerulean streaks that were characteristic of FTL travel warped and filed down to nothing, startling everyone in the cockpit practically out of their seats. The filling blackness of real-time space burst into view like a bubble threatening to pop. Starlight replaced the FTL contrails through the viewport, granting a dim glow that just barely penetrated the interior of the yacht.

"What happened?" Jack asked as she lumbered from her chair, aware that the stars outside the craft seemed to be drifting somewhat, tumbling in an unstable direction like a singularity was all pulling them downward.

James was already up and at the maintenance console. An outline of the _Sindra_ popped into view, where a vivid red section near the aft thrusters was flashing in a rather nagging matter. The marine double-tapped on the area and a report log slid upward, citing various error codes in his face.

"There's a failure in the fuel transport pump," he said. "A leak from a bad seal, perhaps." He then turned to Phoria, who was still sitting in her seat. "I'm guessing you can't remember when this thing was last serviced?"

"Well…" Phoria stammered, "…no. I've never really had to—"

"Question answered," James muttered brusquely as he closed down the holographic report and edged his way past the quarian. "I'll grab an EVA suit and check the damage. Who knows, I might be able to fix this slag heap."

Jack stutter-stepped in James' direction. "Repair a ship? _You_, marine?"

The miffed look on James face would almost be humorous if the situation was not dire. "I got a few tips from the best engineer the _Normandy_ ever had—I had to do something to kill all the down time I had on the old girl. Besides, I have a bike back home that I do tinker around with from time to time. How hard could it be? Unless you think you can fix this thing yourself?"

Now it was Jack's turn to fixate James with a flat stare. "You can just say that you don't want to watch Phoria and I'll believe you."

"I _don't_ want to watch Phoria," James agreed (Phoria scoffed in the background). "But I also want to see if I can do something about the damage. As I'm betting that, between the two of us, there's only one who knows where to find a carburetor in a drive core power supply…"

"You're just making an assumption. Hundred credits says that I can find your stupid carburetor on this ship, given the chance."

James just smiled and turned towards the door, but not before he dispensed his final parting words. "A carburetor mixes air and fuel for internal combustion engines, Jack. They've never been used in spaceships. Ever."

As the marine left for the airlock, Jack simply mustered a crooked smile and shook her head after delivering a withering laugh. "You play dirty, Vega. I'll give you that."

The rail-thin woman returned to her seat, settling into the cappuccino-colored leather, expansive and plush. She brushed her long brown hair behind her head. The yacht had a center console that contained traditional knobs and switches for some of the tertiary systems and leisure activities—a deliberate throwback to centuries past. Many of these switches controlled aspects such as personalized air-conditioning, massaging seats, and viewing screens for vids. The center console slid down from the control panel and ran across the floor, terminating at the cockpit's halfway point, a failed bisection. The console, also coated with leather, acted as a barrier between the two women—Jack and Phoria—a fallen log that had dropped to serve as the protective shield.

A hum emitted from Phoria's seat—she had just flipped on the massaging chairs. Her body was gently rocking back and forth as the muscles in her shoulders were being pulverized. Those twin motes through that visor of iced snow were as smug as they could be. Jack shot a growling look back at the quarian, disgusted.

"Your seat has this ability too," Phoria raised a swaying hand, utterly failing to read the room. "If you want to set the speed—"

"I'm fine," Jack said curtly. "I don't want a fucking massage."

"Suit yourself, though it looks like we're going to be here awhile. In the meantime, since we'll need to be as comfortable as possible…"

Jack watched the quarian's hands rise up to her helmet and she narrowed her eyes at the alien. "Don't even _think_ about removing that visor just so you can show off again. You do that and I'll space the fucking thing out the airlock. _Then_ we'll see how confident you are if all those medical implants were a good investment."

Phoria paused for a few moments before slowly dropping her hands back down to her sides.

The next minute carried on in an awkward silence. The only sounds that could be discerned were the subtle rumblings and vibrations that jittered through the craft, most likely from James fiddling away at the yacht's engines to the rear, having donned a protective suit and gone outside to check the damage. Jack leaned her seat back, her eyes closed as she tried to rest. Phoria kept sitting upright, the massage chair now pummeling her lower back, but her overall disposition was less secure, a little shaken up.

A steel nerve soon returned to the quarian and she now looked upon Jack with a newfound matronly quality. "You don't trust people all that easily, do you?"

"I trust people just fine," Jack murmured, eyes still shut. "It's just that I don't like most of them."

"That's plainly evident," Phoria said as she now leaned forward. "From that stiff demeanor that you constantly put up as an initial defense, to your aggressive style of outer wear, not to mention the fact that you can barely look at me, I'm willing to bet that you're a borderline sociopath, Jack."

The human breathed softly from her nose in a faint chortle. "You sound proud of what you're able to imagine."

"That's not a denial. And I doubt you would correct me if I were to infer that those scars on your wrists that you're trying to hide—the ones you've taken care to lavish those ornate tattoos upon—offer the true reason for your distrust of people." When Jack quickly rotated her head in the quarian's direction, cracking her eyes open, her face a mask of shock and anger, Phoria nodded once in her success. "You're not the only one who has a monopoly on suffering, Jack. You painted your body as a form of rebellion—to decry the lot in life that your handlers gave you. You've been used so many times that you find it hard to let your guard down, even after so long. Do you think that story is special? We've _all_ been used, human. You, me, even your rather large friend. Some of us have found different methods of coping, that's all."

A muscle now twitched in the corner of Jack's jaw. She had to take a breath before she was able to speak evenly. There was just something about this quarian that rubbed the woman the wrong way. Phoria was just one of the most irksome people she had ever met, mostly because her attitude reflected a lifestyle where her superiority had lofted her ambitions miles above her head. There were many people in Jack's life that Phoria reminded her of. She also remembered that she had killed several of those people, come to think of it.

Jack said, "If you think that I have every intention of forgetting what happened to me, then you don't know me as well as you think you do. Every day I try to imagine what I could have done with a normal life. But there were others—stronger than I was at the time—who wanted to break my mind, my body. And they succeeded… for a time. Once I was the strongest, I broke _them_. I chose my path rather than it being handed to me on a silver fucking platter. I relieve everything from the life I had before because I _want_ to remember just how far I've come. So, yes… the both of us may have been used, but if you had been in my place, you would have begged for our roles to be reversed. How hard did _you_ have to work before your name had a _business_ signed to it, Phoria?"

"Now _you're_ overly generalizing," a flash of anger flickered across Phoria's eyes. "Before I was in the service of my last master, I had many owners who thought of me as property rather than a person. They called me trash, they beat me—"

"_I_ was called trash. _I_ was beat. Much worse than you ever were."

"I inherited an empire from nothing!"

"You only did so because you were the lucky chump of the day whose contract got bought after one of your masters tired with you. It could have been anyone in your position. You think that you had something special, Phoria, but no, you were just a nice, open face who happened to be in the right place at the right time."

The effect of Jack's words was electrifying. Phoria rapidly stood from her seat in a blind rage. Jack, slightly calmer, rose to meet her, her own fists clenched but no crackles of biotic energy spurted from between her tightly wrapped fingers.

The quarian took a step towards the center console. "Perhaps you're simply envious of the fact that I was given such an opportunity as a result of my skills while you have not taken advantage of your gifts for your own personal profit."

"Your mistake is not realizing that we're not in direct competition with one another, Phoria," Jack coolly remarked. "And if you take a step over the middle of this room, the both of us will find out just how advantageous my 'gifts' can be."

Now Jack opened herself up to the vibrant energy that the cosmos radiated. Her fists were soon surrounded by violent pulsating orbs that sizzled and snapped, the power within itching to be released. The glow from the biotic energy grew in Phoria's visor like a frigid lick of flame, overpowering the natural light exuded from her eyes.

Noticing the quarian's slight flinch, Jack pressed her advantage, her slightly scarred face hardening. "Another mistake you made is that I could somehow stand to see myself in your position. Leading a corporation? Casually organizing death squads for profit? No, what I've learned from people far better than you could ever dream is that I don't need to _take_ stuff to find fulfillment. There are many other ways to do that."

"So you find teaching students at Grissom to be biotic combatants to be the most enlightening course you could choose?" Phoria retorted, which produced only a slow blink from Jack. "I say that not as a slight, but to make a point. You're so quick to characterize me as a warmonger when in fact you do the same thing. I don't fault you, this is who you were made to be as it is nearly everything you know, but you have found your calling, your true self, to train others in the skills that you know. You do it out of protection, so that your students will never have to face a broken life. But what separates what you do from what I do? I, in contrast, never have to throw myself into the work that the contractors perform. You, however, embroil yourself in tactics, methodology, and decisive destruction, bringing it all to the next generation. From where I am, Jack, you're _already_ in my position. In some ways, you've _surpassed_ me."

Deep down, Jack knew that Phoria's stubborn persistence would eventually lead to a catastrophic conclusion if this was allowed to continue. The problem was that the quarian was so eerily similar to the men and women who had control over her life when she had been back on Pragia. Those scientists playing god over a cadre of kidnapped children. The abuse, the torture. The killing, the pleasure. Jack remembered those cold smiles of intrigue upon the faces of those demons in white lab coats every time she emerged victorious from a bout in the ring with another child. She would be bloody, sometimes her arms would be limp against her sides, dislocated, and bruises would already have started to mar her face. It did not matter to them, so long as their experiments were producing the desired result: manifesting a perfected biotic killer.

To those confident assholes who wore the Cerberus insignia with pride, the lives of others were merely statistics to them. Jack had meant nothing to them as a person. Was that how Phoria was looking at her now? The thought introduced a cold spike of ice in her mind—a frigid geyser threatening to plume as it breached ground. To reassure herself, Jack thought back to her escape from the Pragia facility, how she had torn rooms, halls, and people apart just to reach the exit. The lead scientist responsible for the whole sorry affair had been the last one to block her way, armed with only a pistol. She could still hear the wet snap of his neck when she had pushed him into a wall with a biotic slam.

Did Phoria really know that Jack could kill her with a simple wave of the hand? She was playing a dangerous game, no matter what the answer might be.

"Something else just occurred to me," Phoria said in pretend realization, her visor a mere foot away from Jack's face.

"Do tell," Jack growled.

"Everyone's motivations for this whole sorry affair have been established already. Captain Vega, he's here because he thinks he's seen some part of the system that's broken, something that apparently no one else has noticed, and he thinks that he can fix it. The people trying to kill me, they're only doing so because they want to ensure that the system remains 'broken.' But you… you're still a mystery. What compels you to be here, of all places? Why are _you_ here, Jack, instead of anywhere else?"

Jack turned away as she began rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. From her pocket, she withdrew a tiny vial of pills. She popped one in her mouth and swallowed it dry. After gritting her teeth for a few seconds, she turned to the quarian, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"You think I'm just along for the ride, is that it? Just some joy-seeker trying to stave off boredom?"

"From where I am there appears to be nothing tying you to me."

"Is that so?"

"If there is, then it isn't obvious to me."

Wordless, Jack raised her left arm as she activated her omni-tool. A menagerie of faces danced one-by-one across the scope of the tool's display. A slideshow that had already been set up for her guest's benefit. Her mouth was now a hard line, the humor vanished from its graces. Her eyes were steel. Her wiry arms were rigid, inflexible, the curvature of her tattoos creeping up the skin of her wrists as the sleeves of her jacket slid back a little.

Phoria eyed the array of faces—all human—as they scrolled on by. Men and women of all ages. She looked upon them all, but her eyes told Jack that she did not yet understand.

"Jason Prangley," Jack uttered tonelessly. "Moni Rodriguez. Ephraim D'Souza. Jacques Ferrara. Artyom Hanness. Joey Francis. Greywyn Davies."

"I do not know these people," Phoria shook her head.

"I have a list of thirty-seven names. I will say them all to you until you finally realize why I'm here."

"Then say them!" the quarian hissed. "Because it will make no difference whether you say one name, or ten, or a thousand. So go ahead and humor yourself. These people—I have no idea who they are."

For a moment, Jack was back in the darkness. Surrounded by the hateful glare of those people in their lab coats. Voices of the dead taunting her, filling her veins with agony.

"I knew of the deal that the Alliance was cutting with CytoSystems before it was ever announced," she said. "How might I have known that? Because those thirty-seven people, all students that I taught at Grissom, gave me updates on their current assignments. I check up with all of my students, Phoria. I know them all by name. And many of them mentioned to me that, on some of their campaigns, they were being mysteriously partnered with a large firm called CytoSystems as some part of a collaborative partnership. A trial run, if you will."

Phoria squinted her eyes, still not getting it.

"I know of at least three of these campaigns that occurred before the deal was made public," Jack continued. "The moons of Jupiter. Argos Rho. Horizon. A variety of campaigns on many worlds. Starting to see where I'm going, Phoria?"

"I know the places you mentioned," Phoria stated carefully. "And I will admit that my company had a presence there. But I still do not see the point you are trying to make."

"I'm getting to that. You might recall that for these missions, things never went smoothly. Reports of resistance from rival firms, armed attacks against Alliance members. Many of these missions were escort or defensive missions. None of them were completed without some form of violence being traded between both sides. Sound familiar?"

"It does," the quarian nodded. "It was indicative of the need for the Alliance to make a deal with us, as they were unable to protect their own troops for each of those missions. Our presence saved lives. The Alliance took notice of my company's performance and they went forward with the deal, as planned."

Jack's eyes momentarily flickered over to the window, where the cold embrace of space beckoned. The rumbling vibration from a fusion welder could be felt below her feet. James' handiwork.

"Those three missions," Jack said. "Those names I mentioned. Those thirty-seven names were the names of my students that were assigned to those campaigns. Thirty-seven men and women." The biotic took a breath. "Thirty-seven killed."

Phoria's gaze turned inward as a gripping and crushing sensation overcame her. She swayed on her feet, dazed. Jack took a step forward, toeing the median of the room.

"I had access to the after-action reports, Phoria. I had access to the body cameras. I know that all three missions were run by CytoSystems and not the Alliance. If they hadn't, there wouldn't have been any of the simple mistakes that cost so many lives back then. Bad positioning for cross-fire. Friendly fire in general. Poor troop coordination. Your careless management allowed those in positions of power to lead my students, many whom I knew since they were _children_, into death traps. They died following useless orders as they tried to be good soldiers. _Is that point clear enough for you?!_"

Jack enunciated her outburst with a ferocious swipe of her hand. A fan of solid blue light, intentional or not, spat from her fingertips, catching the edge of one of the media monitors and propelled it into the doorframe. It collided with a startling crash and spilled thick glass all over the carpeted floor. Phoria was so startled she jumped and stumbled backward into the copilot's chair. In a flash, Jack clambered over the center console and stood towering above her, an azure glow branching out from the pupils in her eyes.

"It's easy for you to sit a desk and to send others to their deaths with a flick of a stylus," Jack prodded a finger directly into Phoria's helmet, poking her against the seat's headrest. "You don't have to empathize with the people you employ. They fight under your banner and you hardly take notice. And when one person is responsible—directly or indirectly—for the people that I had to care for…"

The human shook with rage as she let the threat ring in the air hollowly. Phoria's eyes crossed as she beheld the point of Jack's finger, still perched precariously upon her visor.

"You…" she mumbled, "…you came all this way… to tell me that?"

Jack shook her head. "No. You remember that party in the Citadel, that pathetic display supposedly held in your honor? I was never officially invited to it. I crashed it because I wanted to see you in person. I wanted to meet the woman who could callously shrug at the deaths of my students, to see if the monsters that have always been with me had taken on another form." She glared with disgust upon the quarian, at this thing trembling in her enviro-suit. All pretenses of power had vanished from the alien once a superior strength had identified itself. Jack felt that she should be relishing this moment. Instead she felt unclean, angry for doing this in the first place.

"If I could say anything to you to make things right, I would," Phoria said. "But we both know those words don't exist."

Jack finally dropped her hand away with a lack of gravitas. "Even if they did, they would not have stopped me from doing what I originally sought out to do."

"Which was?"

"I thought this would be obvious as well," Jack shrugged. "I wanted to kill you, that's why."

The quarian seemed to dwindle in her chair, now finally staring up at the human with the proper amount of fear that she had been silently requesting, for the proper deference to be observed. The biotic wreath had still not departed from Jack's eyes, which surrounded her iris like a crown of thorns. The vibrations from James' repairs had ceased and now the women were able to pick up on the audible chime of an airlock's pressure equalizing from back down the hall. They were about to have company.

"So…" Phoria breathed. "What happens now?"

Jack took the next moment to step away, her face twisted in revulsion. "Now? You're not at all sharp as you make yourself out to be. Now, it's in my best interest to keep you alive until you're finally out of my hands, Phoria. Do I like this development? Not at all, but the marine I'm now paired with seems to believe that you have value for as long as you still have a heartbeat, and that's enough for me to keep control of my urges."

"On behalf of your students, Jack, I'm sorr—"

"_Don't_," the human hissed as she raised a finger again, causing the quarian to violently flinch in her seat. "You've already said that words won't work. Take this as your cue to follow your own advice." Jack now headed back over to her chair and sat down upon it, crossing a leg as she folded her arms in front of her chest. "Here's a warning for you, Phoria. There are some demons that can't be conquered. And I'm not known as the forgiving sort."

The room would become a silent abyss for the next few minutes with the two women uncomfortably staring at the other, at least until James would finally join them. Jack stared at Phoria with nothing less than a putrid hatred while the quarian's confidence dwindled as she faltered in meeting the stare from the biotic's eyes. Phoria, apparently, had never been in a situation where she had been trapped with someone else who legitimately hated every single fiber of her being and could not escape from all the misdeeds that had been accrued under her name. The focused and vile loathing had a withering effect and Phoria was a mere peon within the dominion of Jack.

Ignoring all the creature comforts the yacht offered, the leather seats and the plush carpeted floors, Jack stewed in her anger, fingers tightly gripping the armrests.

At least she had finally made her point.

* * *

**A/N: I'm glad I was able to get out a chapter before the holidays are upon us. It's probably safe to assume that I won't have another one ready until after the New Year. Busy schedules and all that. Especially with my life being completely packed to the brim. In that case, consider this an early Christmas (or Hanukkah) present for you all. But don't fret! There's still a lot more story to go.**

**Playlist:**

**Shooting Range**  
**"Bride of Deluxe"**  
**Cliff Martinez**  
**Drive (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**A Start (Roahn and Phoria)**  
**"Wide View"**  
**Marco Beltrami and Buck Sanders**  
**Ford v. Ferrari (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Dirty Senators**  
**"The Manifesto"**  
**Lorne Balfe**  
**Mission Impossible: Fallout (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Phoria Cowers**  
**"Bathroom Dance"**  
**Hildur Guðnadóttir**  
**Joker (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	17. Chapter 17: Substratum in Corrosion

"_Behind the scenes, a current debate is raging between the leadership of the Catholic Church, based in Vatican City, and the backing firm of Ys Lab, located in Stuttgart. Ys Lab claims to have located the gene in humans that indicates a proclivity for biotic potential after performing painstakingly detailed research in which stem cells are frequently utilized for laboratory operations. The Church's stance is that, while dark energy research does not go against their tenets, they are profoundly resistant to the methods that Ys Lab has employed to reach this conclusion. This has sparked, for perhaps the thousandth time, a heated discussion on the usage of stem cells and laboratory research. Neither side has reached out to the press for comment."_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_The Citadel__  
Governmental Quarters_

Cirae hardly slept a wink the night after she had viewed the contents on Miranda's disc. She could not stop replaying that endless spectacle in her head, that horrid pageant of fellow politicians, some of which she knew personally, selling their souls for a bit of extra cash on the side. Flippant words that would affect billions down the line all disregarded for the purposes of inflating a bank account. She had tossed and turned, moved this way and that, but the robotic warbling of her peers all professing their allegiance for bills designed to punish their own constituents and reward the PMCs had her haunted, preventing her from finding any sleep.

In the end, Cirae had resorted to a few milligrams of melatonin to get her to somewhat relax, but while this succeeded in making her drowsy, it did not help her reach the end goal that was a decent night's rest. She recalled that she had glanced many times at her chronometer, internally begging for the morning to come while the minutes ticked on by at a torturous rate. But it was useless—she had already made her comfort her first sacrifice in return for the knowledge she had sought in her pursuit.

So much progress had been made towards hurting the people she was responsible for, Cirae had realized with a pang. All this time she had been consistently hamstrung in her own private little bubble that were her own self-interests while the corporations and their paid stooges passed bill after bill legitimizing their operations. And Cirae had been none the wiser up until this point. Only now did she understand that her view of the entire political spectrum had been so narrow she might as well have been looking at it through a microscope. She was such an insignificant percentage of the greater whole—a thread in the tapestry—that she had been unable to see the grand design of the war machine that she had been embroiled in. As was by design—even to representatives of the Galactic Assembly, the codex of legislation accessible to anyone in the Council's workings was so obscure, so dense, that fully deciphering all of it and the direction of its intent was such a prodigious task that even an asari like Cirae could not find the time to tackle such an insurmountable task.

In short, glimpsing the grand direction of the Assembly had done nothing except heavily depress Cirae. She had been elected by her people to act as a bastion for reason and lawfulness. But now the laws were now focused on crushing the general populace. What could she do with the realization that she was on the side hurting the people that supported her this whole way?

At the very least, Cirae knew what the very next step she should take was. Her _distant_ future, on the other hand, was a bit murkier to her current line of vision.

Before what could be considered a reasonable hour for waking up, Cirae rose from the bed where she had failed to grab any sleep. She donned a sensible flannel robe and crossed the room to her office and activated the holo-chat application.

Miranda had left Cirae instructions on how to come into contact with her securely after their face-to-face meeting. The asari had jotted down a few notes during their discussion because Miranda's procedure certainly seemed like it was bordering on sheer paranoia. Cirae had to download two different pieces of software—a private extranet network and a J-NEX client, which was essentially a type of file that very few consoles could read because it was such a scarcely used extension—and connect them to her traditional chat client. Miranda had even showed Cirae how to create a separate virtual instance on her machine, one without any of the monitored plugins that the Council had installed so they could spy on her. Traditional politician craft. Everyone in politics was being monitored these days.

Cirae waited until she had all of the proper programs connected and running green. She then opened up her database and selected Miranda's disguised contact number to be inserted into her call box. A connection request then showed on the screen, represented by Cirae's icon feeding stray bits of data to Miranda's icon (in this case, a generic profile picture was used in lieu of the human's official portrait).

To the asari's surprise, the call was picked up by the second ring and the miniature projector in her desk—hidden underneath a slab of charcoal glass—emitted a dusty circle of blue light. The shape of Miranda quickly glimmered into being atop the surface of the desk, in miniature form. The hologram's image crackled and sputtered, but it stabilized in short order. Miranda was wearing a set of formal sleepwear and her hair was immaculately tied into a bun. Cirae wondered if the human had stayed up all night, just waiting for this call.

"_I was expecting to hear from you sooner, Representative Idetha_," Miranda said, a tiny smile overtaking her. "_But clearly it looks like you've put some thought into the materials I gave you._"

"You wouldn't be where you were if your perception skills weren't up to snuff," Cirae rose from the desk and waved a hand, "gripping" the hologram and moving it next to the desk while simultaneously enlarging it so that Miranda appeared at full height. The asari now moved about the room, head spinning as she kept her gaze tilted towards the floor. "You had all those files. All that… proof. You had it in your hands and I'm somehow the _only_ person you've ever shown it to?"

"_You still believe that widely distributing it would have made any difference?"_

"Call me naïve if you want, Miranda, but I at least want to have the hope that a public outcry would lead to some actual change. If they even knew that their representatives had sold them out…"

Presumably somewhere else on the Citadel, Miranda ruefully shook her head and gave a sad chuckle. "_You and I both know that the public's perception is extraordinarily limited. History has shown that, when provided with a deluge of information regarding misdeeds, which that disc certainly contained, they are too overwhelmed to mount a straight and focused response. Moreover, I don't think that such a revelation will galvanize the sort of response you hope. Many of the civilians… if they aren't part of the sizeable population that has not felt any of the effects from the PMCs then it is hard for us to get them to care_."

Cirae had to resist the urge to stamp her foot, knowing that Miranda was right. "They should all be infuriated to learn that the people they elected… their representatives, mayors, senators, even their fucking prime ministers have been taking this money for years for their own benefit!"

"_But it's not their money_," Miranda pointed out. "_If this was a misallocation of tax credits, then we might have been able to forge some kind of platform, but this is all regarding corporate donations that occur under-the-table. All privately owned and beyond the concern of the average citizen_."

"Fuck!" Cirae exclaimed as she increased the radius of her pacing, with Miranda as the epicenter. "I just learned yesterday that my own faction leader was receiving these payments, Miranda. Everything that I tried to push in that legislative chamber was all shot down by this woman because I was not supporting the industrial directive. I didn't know it, but I was—am—useless in that chamber. Could you imagine coming into the Citadel, Miranda, full of ideas and confidence, only to find out that your voice holds no weight?"

"_Mm. Not particularly. The obstacles that have traditionally been in my way were ones that I could solve with a well-placed biotic shove_."

"Aren't you special? Well, when your own leadership finds out that you included me on this…"

Miranda rasped a haughty laugh. "_What leadership? They still call me a racist to my face, Cirae. I tore off that symbol years ago and they can't let it go. It's like they expect me to derail their own plans on getting a majority in the Assembly—they think I'm bad optics_."

"Another thing we have in common," Cirae said as she brought a hand to her chin. "We're both two steps away from becoming pariahs in our own government. But a pariah can't solve this problem, Miranda. I need to go higher to project this discovery, but how can I do that with my path barred?"

"_That's your conclusion, is it?_" Miranda asked after a lengthy beat. "_Is higher really the way to go?_"

Cirae was confused by the question. It seemed appallingly unhelpful as a way to continue this line of thought, but once the asari honed in on the somewhat knowing look Miranda had adopted—the slight bend at the hips, the expectant arch of an eyebrow—Cirae's mouth opened a few millimeters in realization.

Of course. Who was she to complain about being stonewalled when she had a master of averting those walls on the other side of her call? How could she have forgotten that Miranda Lawson had been fully aware of the lengths that Commander Shepard had gone to in order to spread his own, more important message? The woman had been by that man's side at one point and had studied everything about him from the beginning of his career right up until the end of the war. Cirae's conundrum was considerably less weighty, a fact that she had to begrudgingly qualify in her head.

"You know more," Cirae whispered. "Tell me."

"_It's not so much what I know_," Miranda said as she crossed her arms. "_It's more of what I suspect._"

"I've been wrestling with rumors, suspicions, and warnings for the past several years of my life. I'm done with the games and I don't care how far I have to dig to reach the answers."

Miranda's guise slipped into satisfaction. The two of them now had a discrete understanding of how far the other was willing to traverse for the truth. Cirae did not consider herself to be suckered into this predicament, as Miranda had so kindly spilled the potential ramifications for her at the outset, but there was still a slight ember of annoyance at how easily she had treaded the path that the human had laid before her.

The hologram looked away as a few document icons began blipping up next to her head, signifying a transfer of data to Cirae's machine. "_While there has been an extraordinary influx of private military company activity over the past few years, with a new corporation seemingly popping up every week or so, I have found clues that tell an entirely different story. It may seem like there's an entirely diversified array of PMCs out there today—thousands upon thousands of companies all vying and competing for various contracts and equally varied work—but the actual network of these PMCs is most likely less populous. Quite significantly so, in fact."_

Cirae opened one of the documents, which contained an exquisite and detailed hierarchy that combined both individuals and corporations, with various color-coded lines (determinant on income) tying them all together. The clues had not yet formulated into a cohesive whole in Cirae's head, so she let Miranda keep talking.

"_As you saw in the video files, these companies have been paying exorbitant amounts of credits to governmental employees to push their agenda. The only issue is, once I figured out which donation amount corresponded to each company, there is a rather large inconsistency that their financial documents prove."_

The asari lidded her eyes up in interest. "Go on."

"_Remember a few of those PMC names? Corv Data? Nestle/DuPont? X-V-I? Well, based on their publicly released—and vetted—financial statements, neither one of those companies would have enough operating income to survive longer than they already have. For example, X-V-I spent nearly 100 million credits in total in payouts to corrupt politicians. Compared to other companies with a similarly-sized workforce, that's a huge difference in donation amounts. Their normal operating expenses routinely total 5 billion every solar year. Their reported income for last year? Only 2.9 billion. And it's the same story with practically every PMC on that list. They are losing money at an astounding pace, far quicker than they could hope to stay afloat, and yet, they all remain in business._"

"Could be a coincidence," an unconvinced Cirae said. "Small firms routinely rack up debt all the time until they manage to balance their expenses with their profits. You see it all the time with start-ups. Venture capitalists have come to expect that, for the first few years, they will be losing vast sums of money on their initial investments."

"_No VC wants to touch a PMC, Cirae_," Miranda smirked. "_The business is too volatile and the economy is too dynamic for their liking. Besides, for a long-lasting firm like Nestle/DuPont, who has been in business for centuries, do you think that they could still retain investors if they were shedding billions of credits every year for so long? When profits tank, so does investor interest. And then the company goes bust. But so far, none of them have. Gone out of business, I mean. Sure, a few names might disappear here or there, but that's usually the result of rebranding efforts. A lot of these PMCs simply change their name every so often as a tactic to deflect bad press, taking advantage of a public that has, like I said, a short attention span_."

Cirae shook her head in amazement. "So… you're saying that because none of these firms could possibly be profitable enough to exist on their own accord… you're insinuating that every single one of these PMCs could be linked under a few hidden corporations?"

"_It might even be only one corporation. One entity observing for the shadows while the PMCs are merely the sprawling arms. Shells, in fact, with the money potentially pooled in one central location."_

The asari's face was frozen. Truthfully, she did not even know how she should react right about now. "And how the _hell_ did you get to this conclusion? From the financial documents alone?"

"_If you read between the lines, you can glean a lot of information that way_," Miranda said, almost defensively.

"You read the documents in their entirety? Miranda, we're representatives of the Galactic Assembly. We don't read those documents because they're printed in a way to make them all but indecipherable to financial lawyers." The asari then caught what she had just said and made sure to take a glance at Miranda's knowing face before proceeding. "Unless… you happen to know a few of those lawyers in your network?"

"_Here's a tip that could come in handy for you_," Miranda said, still wearing a secure disposition. "_Asking for help does not put you in a position that should be considered unenviable. If you end up profiting, does it matter?"_

"A fair point," Cirae conceded, a little humbled. The human spoke plainly and decisively, something that Cirae admired. Too many times she had conversed with her peers that were content on toing the line to maintain decorum to the point where the constant balancing act to appear neutral did nothing but enrage her. Miranda's bluntness and the way she presented her points was such a refreshing change of pace that Cirae wished she had known the human much earlier. The things they could have done as a team…

"_There's more backing up my hypothesis. Something else that was discovered in the financial documents. All of the PMCs on this list enlist the services of only two accounting firms—both located on the Citadel—to perform the audits of their financial statements. There are thirty-seven accounting firms in the galaxy that have enough capital and employees to be part of a group known as Tier IV. The Tiers for accounting firms use those metrics—capital and employees—to rate themselves in terms of their performance and the breadth of services they offer. And, like I said, the PMCs only use one of the two firms that routinely show up in the financial statements: Vocure & Wreinch and IdolSov."_

Cirae suspected there was more to this line of thinking and, sure enough, her suspicious were proved correct.

"_Here's the interesting bit. On the pages that have been signed off by the firms, many of the individual signatures of the auditors routinely appear on these statements from firm to firm. As in, one auditor would sign off on an audit for Chimera then onto another one from Corv Data and so on. There is a deliberate pattern between the individuals denoted in these documents. So, could the PMCs have all coordinated to pay the correct auditors off for all of their statements? Unlikely. This could only happen if the PMCs were all linked to a large firm which would account for the similarities found in these documents."_

There was the crushing inclination for Cirae to just sink in her chair and hold her head until it was time for her body to meet a joyless rest again. The barred slits of artificial light slicing their way through the blinds cast ribbed shadows upon the carpet, nearly reaching her bare feet. Somewhere beyond the window, a skycar whistled as it passed by.

Miranda waited until the far-away look in Cirae's eyes had faded. "_Naturally, you must be wondering how a company so large that it has every single private military under its wing could possibly remain a secret all this time._"

Cirae chewed her lip. "I'm guessing that the reasons for their supposed existence do not meet the definition of 'legal', correct?"

"_Either that, or the 'corporation' can be pared down to the activities of just one individual. A mystery backer, the one who has been directly responsible for the rapid expansion of these PMCs._"

Had this come from anyone else, Cirae would have doubted their sanity. But Miranda had proven herself to be a calm and unnerving presence not just from her exploits during the war but from her record as a fellow representative. It would have been a hard sell if this sort of information had reached her via any other casual channel, for it would have reeked of the dreaded words that caused everyone's ears to clamp shut in agitation: conspiracy theory. No one wanted to subscribe to such rumors if they even so much as whiffed a plot of sedition. Too many nutcases over the years had tried to make their outlandish claims by resorting to various mediums of broadcasting—this, however, merely served to pit the public against these ideas as the overall structure surrounding these theories was flimsy and therefore primed to be labelled as lunacy.

But Miranda… she had insider knowledge of what truly separated the blurred lines between conspiracy and truth. As a former acolyte of Cerberus, she had been in a position where she had been directly privy to the sort of fantastical operations that would have made a conservative politician stick their fingers into their ears in an effort to drown out such perceived fantasies. If there was anyone to pick apart the truth from the bullshit, Cirae would be hard-pressed to find another so qualified.

Her eyes met Miranda's. "It's quite a tale," she said.

The human frowned. "_Are there parts of it you don't believe?_"

"No, I can believe it all. But I'm worried that everyone else won't." Cirae crossed her arms as she began to pace the room. "Now I know why you picked me. Out of everyone in the Assembly, you saw that I was the angriest one in the room. You knew I was itching for a reason to point the finger at someone, to blame for all the political gridlock. You saw that I would accept news like this because I wanted so dearly for it to be right."

"_And not a word you've said has been false_," Miranda offered.

Her gaze raw, mind heavy, Cirae turned to face the hologram. "I don't begrudge you for capitalizing on that. In fact, I'm grateful you brought this to me. But you and I both know that other people need to hear this. We won't make any progress if we just keep everything a secret."

"_Very true, but as we just theorized, we can't release everything all at once. It'll be picked apart. The momentum will be lost._"

"Then we'll just have to do it piecemeal," Cirae declared. "Trickle out details one bit at a time. Let the public form the conclusion we want them to reach before the proof confirms their suspicions. But we'll need help from the press to pull it off. Someone with a… sensitive touch."

Miranda stroked her chin. "_Relying on the fourth estate might not elicit the results you intend_."

"I have contacts in other places too, you know. I know a guy who works for the _Times_. A staff writer and occasional biographer. A very effective communicator, though his prose can be a bit florid at times. If there's anyone who can craft our message, it'll be this guy."

Though Cirae could not see it, Miranda's expression took on a very subtle note of contentment. Had she caught it, the asari would have questioned the reaction. She would have realized then just how planned Miranda had been for this conversation, with every branch of dialogue having the perfect verbal riposte lined up to steer Cirae on track—to entice her to act on her own motivations instead of being told what to do.

A compatriot with initiative was better than a mindless follower.

"_I'll trust your judgment on this, though I would of course ask that you keep me appraised of your progress?_"

"Obviously," Cirae promised.

_Before you do that_," Miranda pointed out, "_I would suggest that you try to get all sides of the story for your own peace of mind. I know that the proof we have is enough to counter any defense a PMC might utilize against our accusations, but I strongly believe that probing their official positions will help prepare you for the unfortunate battle that is to come. Chimera's headquarters is on the Citadel—I'd recommend you visit them and try to see if you can decipher their relationship with the Council. The CEO is a man named Christenson and he's an idiot. You should have no trouble ascertaining Chimera's current intent as well as gaining some insight into their financial situation. As a representative in the Galactic Assembly, they cannot possibly refuse a dialogue with you_."

"You mean…" Cirae said, "…I should approach this as discretely as possible?"

"_I trust you that you won't let them onto what you really do know. But it'll be worthwhile ammunition when you do meet your friend from the press. With that, the two of you will be able to pick apart their argument. You will have the advantage when you finally do decide to start your divulging_."

As much as Cirae would rather step out into traffic than set foot into a PMC building, for the umpteenth time today she would be in admiration of Miranda's logic. Already she could feel her heart beating faster at the prospect of conversing with a Chimera representative, but she knew that there would be worse discomforts down the road if she was going to continue with this.

She had passed the point of no return. Turning back was no longer an option. For better or worse, she was involved.

* * *

_Menhir_

Across the galaxy, the propensity for restless minds having an ill effect on sleep certainly rang true with Roahn as well. She had been trying fruitlessly for the last few hours to even get a glimpse of that potential zenith of peace while in her room, but her eyes felt like they were continuously nailed wide open, the triple beats of her heart producing an ever-present metronome that reverberated noisily in her ears. Roahn had tried everything short of drugging herself to even attempt some sleep—mild calisthenics, mindlessly browsing the extranet for amusing videos, among other activities—but nothing had any effect. The sheets of the bed lay bunched beneath her suited feet—her entire body was exposed. Her _sehni_ was crumpled where her head met her pillow. The buckles of her belts lay limp on the floor where Roahn had discarded them.

A milky filter passed across the liquid of her eyes. A thick lens pushing her downward. Yawning, Roahn found herself sinking deeper into the mattress. Deeper and darker. Deeper. Darker.

_**You can't escape it**_, a voice that was not hers sprang from her mind.

With a start, Roahn sat upright in her bed, the very concept of sleep now hopelessly lost. She was aware that her brow had become beaded with sweat—she instinctively raised a hand to wipe it but it just bounced off her visor. She then clutched at a spot over her chest, feeling her body's trembling slowly cease. She took sucking breaths, a tiresome effort as if she was being strangled.

The quarian groaned and placed her feet upon the bed, near where she had deposited her boots. Her hands clasped at the sides of her helmet, her synthesized voice coming out in warbled whispers. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to mute the malevolent presence, but it had already fled before she could get her defenses up. Before she could even shine a light into the dark corners of her mind, it had departed without a second volley.

"You're not there," she spoke to the air. "It's nothing. Nothing."

Whether she truly expected a coherent and separate response to her own reassurances, this was unknown even by her. But it did vastly illustrate the point that her lack of sleep was most likely causing chemical imbalances in her brain. Now she was hearing things… not necessarily a good sign.

Roahn was still adverse to the idea of taking something to help her sleep as her body did not have a good association with such compounds. Instead, she felt that she needed to occupy herself for a time, to overwhelm her brain with actual work until there would be a point where there would be no alternative but to sleep.

Rummaging through the drawers in her nightstand to her immediate left, Roahn procured a tiny vial that contained a micro-dose of a stimulant. She inserted the seal at one of the miters in her shoulders—the clear contents drained into her bloodstream in seconds. A slight tingle emitted at her fingertips. It was working.

Roahn then bent over and slipped her feet into her boots. She tightened the straps around her calves. Reaching back towards the floor, she lifted the various belts up from where she had dropped them and looped them around her waist. Then she smoothed out the back of her _sehni_ and checked the mirror to make sure that she looked vaguely presentable. Not that she needed to look like she was going to a fancy dance or a corporate dinner, but a good appearance made for a good mindset. She would be wont to follow such tokens of advice during this trying time.

There was a clear route that Roahn could take to distract her racing mind. She stepped out from her room and quickly followed the curved corridor for a few seconds until she reached the door to the comm room. It was still a few hours before the first shift on the _Menhir_ started so Roahn knew that she would be by herself for a while. Still, she made sure to lock the door behind her as she was in no mood for disturbances.

Crossing the expanse, Roahn sat down at the chair in front of the large console at the end of the room. She typed in her username and password after the login screen quickly flashed to life. Tabbing through folders upon folders of data, she finally arrived at the files she had organized herself that also contained cross-referenced links to related documents deemed imperative to her work. Images of varying resolutions soon made a vivid collage upon the large display. Roahn's visor was saturated with the reflected hues—her own eyes were barely able to carry their own light beyond the violent tableau.

The subject of the images stared dispassionately back at her, their facelessness amplifying the sinister atmosphere that surrounded them. Even here, Roahn could feel a chill grip her extremities, but she vowed to push past it. She would not give in to fear.

At least, Roahn hoped that was not wishful thinking on her part.

For the next hour Roahn worked dutifully at compiling and analyzing the footage of Aleph she had collected from both the security cameras back from the doomed colony she had encountered him on as well as her own helmet cameras. With the _Menhir's_ software, most of her time was spent trying to render images from poor quality to high definition. It did not escape Roahn's attention that she could have enlisted Sagan to assist her with constructing such a visual database, but there were times when Roahn wished to shoulder the responsibility herself as well as build upon her platform skills.

Once she was done, Roahn turned to the center of the room and, with an omni-tool encrusted hand, she made a rising motion with her arm, causing the full-size representation of Aleph to rise from the floor as if it was made of water.

The model was based on the initial compilation Roahn had created for the ship's codex, but now it featured additional touches of detail that she had not had the time to create in the beginning. Several of Aleph's textures were now in extraordinary high definition—many details of his appearance such as the construction of his armor were now able to be viewed in comparison to before, when such touches were rendered invisible by a blurry model.

Roahn swallowed her disgust and nerves down as she took fleeting glances upon the pearl-like helmet. Eventually she forced herself to stare determinedly at Aleph's "face." Now she had a faint idea why some people did not like talking to quarians. But while others could find comfort in the vague features her species' visor betrayed, Aleph had nothing for her eyes to latch onto. No glow of the eyes. No cloudy outline of a nose. Nothing. Just a perfectly polished visor to display the faces of his opponents right back at them.

An empty shell. Almost.

Without looking, Roahn gave a flitting thought and suddenly the air gave a slight pop and a warm glow surged from near her waist, as if a magnificent candelabra had flared all at once. The quarian raised her left arm, the full length of her omni-sword extended and positioned near the neck of Aleph's hologram. The weapon surged and sparked—holographic braces that orbited her forearm and wrist glimmered power readouts. She clenched her fist and rotated her prosthesis slightly so that the blade was nearly touching the diffracted representation of her enemy.

Slowly, Roahn circled the room, holding the omni-sword in a killing position the whole time. The volcanic luminescence battled the slow well of cerulean that glowed from the hologram. The sword faintly hummed, the edges rimmed with static that made it look like it was vibrating ever so slightly. Roahn kept her breathing even and level, making sure to bend her knees and cross the room by rolling her steps through.

As it was just a hologram, "Aleph" did not acknowledge the blade at his throat. Roahn's face twisted as she imagined the man on his knees, awaiting her judgment. Perhaps that was the only thing that would get him to show remorse for what he had done to her. But a deeper fear that Roahn kept on holding back was that Aleph had no such capacity for regret, that he could never give her peace by asking for forgiveness.

That, at his core, he was truly a blackened and shriveled representation of evil itself.

"You _want_ me to find you again," Roahn hissed, a tangible and phantom ache emitting from the stump of her arm as she pointed her sword at Aleph's back. "It's like you think we're destined to battle until the very end. Don't worry, I plan on facing you eventually. The next time, I'll _make_ you draw your weapon. Before all this is done, you will be nostalgic for the time when you had a chance to kill me. I won't make it easy. You'll know that much, I promise."

Roahn's circuit led her back to standing in front of Aleph. The faceless demon offered no rebuttal to the quarian's threat. This silence rang in the air hollowly. With a scowl, Roahn watched as her metallic fingers tightened to the point where they would have shattered bone. Unable to resist, Roahn succumbed to the twitch in her legs as she abruptly sprang forward, mounting a brief charge as she noiselessly swept her blade through the air, a slash of fire passing softly through an intangible neck.

She landed cat-like on her feet, breathing hard. With great effort, she looked back to see, to her remorse, the hologram still standing in place, untouched and immaculate.

Regretful and somewhat angered at her own spontaneity towards violence, Roahn straightened and deactivated the omni-sword, allowing a cool blue glow to gently fill the room again.

"Idiot," she muttered to herself.

She reached out to her tool as she was about to deactivate the hologram and spare her conscience from gazing upon the true face of evil, but as she walked by the side of the armored demon, something caught her eye. She leaned in for a closer look.

A scrap of text etched upon the side of Aleph's shoulder plate, near the bottom where it curved. Matte black, the color of soot. Unreadable at lower definitions but only now apparent from the detailed render Roahn had just performed.

**SA DOD XIN  
9001-XX-XAA-1433**

Roahn tilted her head. It appeared to be a serial number of some sort. Despite his mysterious attire, Aleph did not seem to be the sort who would go the extra route to display any ostentation on his person. It would stand to reason that the etching had existed before the shoulder plate had come across his person and that he had never bothered to remove it. Out of laziness or perhaps a complete lack of caring?

The exact nature of the serial number was unreadable to Roahn, but she did understand a couple of the initial designations. "SA" undoubtedly meant Systems Alliance, and "DOD" probably referred to the Department of Defense, the executive branch department of the Alliance responsible for overseeing military doctrine. Everything else in that etching was foreign to Roahn, but at least she had a good idea where to proceed next.

She pulled out the chair to the desk and made sure they were in range of a comm buoy before she opened an extranet connection to the Alliance military's database. The resulting screen asked for a service number and pass-phrase combination. Roahn gave a tiny smirk as she keyed in her father's information, all from memory, and kept that grin on her face as the database accepted her information without question.

As perhaps the most important individual in the last century, John Shepard's military privileges had not been revoked ever since he had voluntarily left the service—an allowance that not even former generals, admirals, or even prime ministers were allowed to possess once they had departed their station. It might have been seen as improper to deny such rights to one of the most celebrated icons in human history, maybe even the entire history of the galaxy, which was why the top admirals had no problem in allowing Shepard to keep his login information for as long as he lived, despite the little spat that Shepard had been embroiled in with Senator Larsen, the aftermath of which had resulted in the restoration of all of Shepard's previous privileges. After all that he had done for the galaxy, it would have been strange to consider the man a threat to national security. Technically, Shepard probably abused the trust placed on him by allowing his own daughter to know his login information, but it would be an uphill battle in trying to make the man feel guilty for such an action. For simply placing his own trust in his daughter, he would be hard-pressed to recant his decision.

In any case, Roahn now had access to everything in the Alliance—at least, whatever access her father had last was available at her fingertips. She scrolled through a few of the files before arriving at the actual document for the database. This was what Roahn was searching for—every database had access to the root folder, which contained the directories for every single file stored within it. The coding language the database was written in was in a human-created format, but Roahn knew enough of their language to navigate her way through the digital maze.

Typing in "XIN" into one of the search bars, Roahn hit the enter key and a new page quickly appeared on the screen.

_Please specify Experimental Item Number_, a dialogue line read.

"Experimental?" Roahn wondered out loud. That was the preferred nomenclature for projects that were secretive within certain divisions of the military. What was Aleph doing with experimental Alliance armor?

Looking back to the serial number stamped across the pauldron, Roahn typed in "9001-XX-XXA-1433" into the new search bar.

An alert screen abruptly flashed in her face—a red X was displayed and dark red text spilled out from underneath the foreboding symbol.

_Error 22: Your access certificate to Project KOTHOGA is invalid. You do not have authorization to view this project. You have 2 more attempts until function 'sys_lockout' is activated._

That threw Roahn for a loop. There was apparently something in the Alliance that not even her father's credentials could get her access to. Frowning, Roahn tried a different tack and typed in "Project Kothoga" into the search bar, attempting to find out any information she could.

No such luck. The warning screen blazed again, only this time it said that Roahn only had one more attempt before she would be booted from the database entirely.

"Kothoga. Experimental armor. Aleph," Roahn murmured. "What's the connection?"

Out of ideas and down to her last try, Roahn felt that a long shot was the only way to capitalize on the remaining chance she had left. Back into the search bar, she typed "Aleph" and added the operator "LIKE" to add any hits if there were associations as a result of that name in the Alliance database.

The X blared at her one last time.

_Error 22: Your access to Project KOTHOGA is invalid. You do not have authorization to view this project. You have no remaining attempts in your search. You will be shortly redirected to the main page and placed under a timed lockout period. Please contact your administrator if immediate access is needed._

It all clicked for Roahn the very second her screen left the aforementioned page. The extranet connection was slow and choppy, which meant that deviating back to the home page took longer than usual to reach, but the idea had been firmly planted in the quarian's head by the time everything settled into place.

There were many explanations that Roahn could come up with that would have adequately sufficed in tying all the visual clues together. But they would all be rife with their own gaps in the logic… save for one narrative.

Why would Aleph be wearing Alliance armor that was marked as experimental? How would he have possibly come by such a set? Could he have stolen it? Unlikely, as thefts of such magnitude would have left some sort of trail behind in the supply chain. That was not to say that Aleph had the ability to hide such a theft, but it would merely be more work for him to accomplish that seemed quite secondary to his main goal.

So, the armor was clearly related to Project KOTHOGA, a project that not even Shepard's ID could allow her to sneak a peek at. A black op project, perhaps? No way to tell, but such efforts to hide it clearly indicated dodgy antics.

But then… there was the fact that Aleph was somehow linked to this Project KOTHOGA. And not just linked, he was _part_ of the project itself. This had been proven when the Alliance system had locked Roahn out simply for making wild shots in the dark. Surely the database would not have taken such drastic action unless there were documents tied to Aleph already inside it. Maybe her WAGs (_wild-ass guesses_) had hit their targets after all. Ironically, the Alliance's effort to deny her access had simply performed the opposite of its intentions. It was a non-denial-denial.

It was the thing that linked it all together.

KOTHOGA.

Armor.

Aleph.

They were all connected. Together.

Roahn stood from her seat and slowly turned to face the hologram of her enemy, her eyes widened in astonishment.

"Aleph was an Alliance _agent_," she whispered.

* * *

_Menhir__  
Med Bay_

A slightly stained cork bounced upon the desk and nestled itself next to several glencairns made of brushed and grayed glass. Healthy pours of a light gold liquid filled the glasses nearly halfway. Scents of bold peat and campfire embers filled the room. One could even discern a medicinal tang and a vegetal aspect if one concentrated their nose hard.

Sam passed the scotch to all the levo-acid members who sat around the table: Shepard, Liara, and Grunt. He saved a glass for himself. Behind him, Garrus, the only one unable to consume the liquid, was standing behind Sam with a mock expression of disapproval, glancing between the doctor's face and the drink the human now held in a hand.

"You know," the turian pointed out, "smuggling alcohol aboard an active warship would typically garner severe penalties to any offender."

Sam did not appear disheartened at this news. Rather, he bent down to the cabinet below the sink and withdrew another bottle, this one furnished with a matte black finish and a solid gold stem. He offered the bottle to Garrus.

"I look forward to my impending court-martial," Sam quipped in response.

Garrus took the bottle with shaking hands, trying not to show too much joy at the gift Sam had just given him. Weeks aboard this boat he'd served with only dextro gin to comfort him and only now did Sam reveal that he'd been holding onto a bottle of genuine Palaven whisky (cask strength, no less) for the right occasion! The son of a bitch had been hiding this the whole time and he'd not been the wiser. Garrus did not know whether to hug the doctor or hit him.

"Actually, I think I meant to say that you're due for a promotion," Garrus replied with a twinkle in his eye.

"That's what I thought you'd said," Sam smirked as he took his seat at the table. The turian also followed after filling a glass from his newest gift.

Watching the verbal sparring between the two, Shepard just elicited a tiny laugh and shake of his head before he raised the glencairn to his lips. The scotch had an oily texture in his mouth. Pepper and honey quickly arrived upon his palate, followed by toasted bread, stonefruit, leather, and capped with big barbequed meat. After the swallow passed down his throat, the finish to the drink arrived in the form of sweet herbs, peat, black tea, and the tiniest hint of nutty cream. Crazy complexity to the drink, despite the ethanol tingle near the tip of his tongue that betrayed the scotch's young age. He let the flavors sit in his mouth for a bit, basking in the bouquet as they arrived one by one, as if in parade formation.

Shepard watched the other people around him drink. Garrus was taking grateful sips of his whisky—his own glass had a long stem that reached the back of his throat to prevent spillage out of the sides of his mandibled mouth. Sam's eyes were closed pensively as he took occasional draughts. Liara was surprisingly adept at adjusting her tastes to what was quite an unforgiving drink—she was staring at her glass in keen interest as she watched the slick greasy spirals of alcohol swirl in the lake of amber. Grunt, on the other hand, normally a drinker of ryncol, a drink so potent to cause immediate liver damage in humans, had already deposited the contents of his glass into his massive mouth. The scotch had not even constituted an eighth of a regular swallow for the krogan. He patiently blinked his ice-blue eyes as he withdrew a flask from his side to consume in the interim, filled with something that smelled like paint thinner to Shepard. His stomach felt queasy as he watched the krogan down hearty swallows of his own alcohol, the acrid scent interfering with his nose.

At least fifteen minutes passed in near complete silence as the group savored their drinks. Garrus was particularly fascinated with swirling his own drink around in his glass, watching the copper waves crash upon the clear cliffs of his container. Shepard caught the eye of the turian and shot him a warm smile. Garrus returned the gesture and made a tiny salute to Sam.

"If you improve your demeanor you could potentially make a hobby out of bartending," he said to the man.

Sam looked positively flummoxed. "You drunk already, Vakarian? I pass out one drink for everyone and you suddenly think that I have the patience to take care of a sizeable number of patrons? Clearly you haven't seen my bartending skills in action. I can make a whisky sour, a gin and tonic, and that's it."

"Fair enough. How are your cuisine skills?"

"It doesn't matter how good they are. You know how terrible customers are when you're working in the service industry? Hell, if I had a restaurant, I would make it all frontier food just to spite them."

The turian blinked. "What the hell is frontier food?"

Sam set his glass down. "Low effort, is what. Maybe something with a rustic flair. Enchiladas, beans, tortillas. Coffee, too. Rice and gravy. Pico de gallo—I mean, salsa fresca. Anything that I would be able to whip up in less than ten minutes, which isn't happening because I don't want to be a bartender and I don't want to own a restaurant."

Garrus gave a chuff. "For someone in your profession, 'low effort' is not the phrase I want to hear out of your mouth."

"Then don't expect me to pivot to an industry that I have no interest in."

"Be sure to let me know when _that's_ happened," Garrus retorted as he leaned forward, a _gotcha_ moment.

The table erupted with laughter at the doctor's expense, but Sam took the jab in good nature and tried to hide his smile underneath his scotch glass, but was unsuccessful as the corners of his mouth were creeping past the rim. Also his body was shaking slightly with each little laugh he emitted.

"I've forgotten how much I've missed moments like these," Shepard sighed to the group. "Just… an hour all to ourselves when we can just sit and forget about everything else."

"I can't help but be taken back to the _Normandy_ days," Garrus stared off into the distance wistfully. "When was the last time we did anything like this? Sat around and blotted out the galaxy around us?"

"Not since the party at Shepard's apartment," Liara surmised.

Garrus leaned over to murmur in Sam's ear after realizing that the human was technically the odd one out. "After the war," he explained, "the whole crew got together and met—"

"I _got_ it," Sam nodded irritably, like the effort to explain all this to him was unnecessary. "It was pretty self-explanatory."

"The _Normandy_," Shepard mused after a beat. "If it weren't for that war, I'd give all the money I have for one more day on that ship."

"We all would," Grunt rumbled and everyone else around the table nodded in agreement (except Sam).

"If not for the nostalgia, I'd go back solely because of the crew. The finest people I'd ever served with at that point."

Garrus set his glass down and glanced at the empty chair next to Shepard. "And… well. You'd also be back for _one_ person, I'd imagine."

Solemn bobs of heads were shared by all of the conversation's participants. Shepard meekly looked into the tiny scotch pool within the glass he held, taking solace in his bronzed reflection and vividly imagining the sight of a purpled visor over his shoulder, the ghost of a tender hug creeping at his subconscious.

"I would," Shepard said. "A day. An hour. Even a minute. To even _look_ at her again… god, I miss her."

Liara's face was serene as she leaned over and gently clasped the human's calloused hand, her drink set aside. She wore the expression as if she could levy the human's entire pain and do away with it in the span of a thought.

"There isn't a single person here who wouldn't want to see Tali again," she spoke lowly. "To be honest, her absence is the one thing that's prevented me from thinking that this is anywhere near our time on the _Normandy_. She was just… one of its constants. The times when she wasn't on the ship were the moments where the _Normandy_ felt the emptiest."

"Though it was obvious that, when she _was_ around, our commander was at his happiest," Garrus made a grand gesture, which succeeded in drudging up a smile that cracked from the tangled gray forest that was the one-eyed human's beard.

Liara similarly made a face of contentment. "We all loved her, Shepard. All in our own special way. You know that, after we evacuated from Thessia during the war—when my home was burning—that Tali came down to see me?"

Shepard shook his head.

"Well, she found me in the port observation room, sitting in a couch and staring at the passing stars. She knew how upset I was to see my world in such devastation, but she didn't say anything to me. I remember that I was… in a state. Tears and everything. I probably looked like quite the mess. She simply sat down beside me, put an arm around my shoulders, and helped me lean against her. We said nothing between the two of us, because Tali understood how I felt in that time. She sat there as long as she was needed because she didn't want to see me so hurt."

Shepard absentmindedly took a tiny sip of his drink, the ethanol burn rooting him to the here and now as his tongue was pummeled by the drunken waves. "I… never heard that story before. Tali never told me she did that."

Garrus gave a chuckle. "Surprised that, after all this time, there's still something new to learn about her?"

"I guess so."

"Then let me add to the moment," Garrus said as he too set his glass upon the table and sat up straighter, drawing the interested eye of his former commander. "Back when we were preparing to travel to Rannoch for the first time, when the quarian Conclave was aboard our ship, you remember that Tali was a little late in joining your meeting?"

Shepard indeed remembered. He also remembered the feeling of his heart absolutely leaping into his throat when she had walked through that door, standing atop the staircase that had marked the boundary towards the lower ring where the war council had been gathered. She had such poise then, so full of confidence. He had wanted nothing more to sweep her into his arms then, in front of the other admirals. He had been able to restrain himself, thankfully, as he figured Tali would have been mortified at such a display of affection in front of her similarly ranked peers.

"That's because I ran into her in the CIC as the meeting started," Garrus continued. "We talked for a few minutes, had the chance to catch up. She was nervous at the outset. Jumpy. I asked her what was the matter. She told me that she both excited and afraid to go through the nearby door because she knew you were so close."

"That made her afraid?" Shepard tilted his head.

"It had been months since the two of you had seen each other. Months since you even shared words. She didn't know what you would say to her after all that time, what you would do. For a moment… she seemed completely lost."

"And?"

Garrus' eyes lidded themselves in mischief. "_And_… all I did was ask her why she felt that way. I sort of implied that there was no reason for her to be so fidgety if she truly had an idea of who you were as a person. I mean, there was only one other person in this galaxy who knew you best, and if _she_ couldn't figure it out, then…" The turian shrugged. "She was completely calm in the next few seconds. From one moment to the next, Tali became a different person. She then said to me, before she left to join the meeting, '_I guess I forgot why I'm on this ship in the first place_.'"

Shepard folded his hands and looked down at the table, then to the door as though he expected a specter to burst through at any moment. "I had always thought that she came to the _Normandy_ out of necessity. As a duty to her people."

The turian ruefully laughed as he shook his head. "Maybe that was the _overarching_ goal, but no. I'm pretty sure she was only there for you."

The commander sat motionless in his seat, now scratching thoughtfully at his chin as he conceptualized the series of events that had culminated in their reunion that day. While this was going on, Garrus grabbed at a plastic utensil and flung it at Grunt, who had been aimlessly staring off into space the whole time. The tool bounced off of the krogan's thick hide and his reptilian eyes lazily turned towards Garrus, obviously irritated. The turian made a folding gesture with hands—ostensibly trying to get the krogan to open up and make his own contribution to the group.

Grunt looked upwards in thought before he made a rumbling noise, drawing the attention of the table over to him.

"I… didn't know what to think when I first saw the quarian," the krogan spoke in his gravelly voice. "Shepard had said she was important… but I couldn't see how. She was diminutive. Vulnerable to illness without that suit of hers. She couldn't even muster a traditional krogan greeting without breaking that helmet."

Sam raised an eyebrow and leaned over to Garrus. "_This is off to a flying start_," he muttered.

"_Krogan anecdotes are somewhat backhanded_," Garrus whispered back. "_Just wait_."

"But she was driven," Grunt continued. "Her strength was deceptive. She fought to satisfy a hunger inside her that refused relief. She was always the first to stand with my battlemaster—she had no fear when she was beside him. I remember being… infuriated all the time when she could decide to stand with her battlemaster faster than I could. As part of a _krantt_, I was bound to destroy Shepard's enemies no matter the circumstance. Being beaten to the punch by a quarian… any other krogan would have taken it as an insult."

"_Still waiting_," Sam whispered a little more fiercely to Garrus.

Now Grunt affixed his steel blue eyes on Shepard. "Your mate understood the honor of _krantt_ better than many other krogan I've met. After my Rite, when Gatatog Uvenk tried to have me killed, she stayed near me to provide me with covering fire, because she knew that I was the target of Uvenk's wrath. When I finally entered the final bout with Uvenk, the bastard broke the gun I had intended on killing him with. But then I heard her call my name out. I looked and she tossed her own shotgun to me. I can still remember catching it in my hand, pulling it over, and using it to blow Uvenk's head off. Once it was over, I stood there for a while, Uvenk's blood drying upon my face. She then walked over and placed a hand on my arm. A… surprisingly gentle touch. I had not expected it. There were a lot of things that happened the day of my Rite… but that touch was the one moment where I had been genuinely surprised."

"I'm surprised you still remembered that moment," Shepard said. "The fight after the thresher maw… was not really something that I was paying attention to all that much."

There was a good reason for that. The last assignment that Shepard had been posted to before he had been placed under the command of Captain Anderson was on Akuze, where a thresher maw had slaughtered every member of his company save for him. He had managed to escape with his life, but he would harbor an intense aversion to thresher maws ever since. The unholy and gargantuan creature—a subterranean cross between an insect and a serpent with a mass of proboscis and tentacles—was enough to strike fear into even the most steel-hearted.

Sam wisely chose this moment to stand up from the table and refill his drink, content at letting the old comrades reminisce about the glory days some more, to share thoughtful memories of a long-lost friend and to bask in the afterglow of her memory.

"I will say that, despite Tali not being here with us today," Garrus chimed in as he splayed his fingers atop the table, "it doesn't really feel like she's missing from this ship. I mean, look at us. We can talk about her like we just saw her yesterday. We have this intrinsic feeling of who Tali was in her totality, someone we all have grown to love, because she could be humble without being overly self-effacing. She could be perceptive without being patronizing. And she was capable in her position, never giving a single complaint." He then gave Shepard's shoulder a nudge while still retaining a serious expression. "Had it not seemed that you were succumbing to favoritism, I think that Tali would have made a better XO of the _Normandy_ than me."

"Garrus," Shepard sighed, not knowing if the turian had been caught up with a burst of forlorn nostalgia.

"She was the best out of all of us and you know it," Garrus said. "I know you didn't take Tali out on all those missions purely because you enjoyed each other's company. No, it was because she could be the voice of reason at times. She never once changed her opinion at the flick of a switch to conform to your ideals—that was not her way. She was prudent and rational, but incredibly stubborn in her preconceived notions. She could be an effective counter and you—hell, all of us—respected her for that. The two of you didn't click in the way that you always agreed with each other's decisions. You came together because you could understand those decisions and find ways to compromise with them. Even if you _wanted_ to agree, it would still take time for the both of you to find common ground on a certain matter."

"The geth was one of those matters," Shepard recounted.

Many occurrences had passed between him and his wife-to-be during the times of the war on the ethical dilemma that had surrounded the geth, and that had escalated into some pretty intense discussions, but not so intense as to cross the line over into argument territory. Tali's stance was on the extreme side in that all of the geth deserved to be exterminated for pushing the quarians from Rannoch. Shepard was the one trying to keep a damper on the whole thing, partly because he felt that he did not have a dog in that fight, seeing as the geth never did anything to him, personally. His stance was to try and keep Tali from going on a murderous rampage every time they came within close proximity of a geth, for fear that her blind rage would cause her to do something suicidal. Both of them would appreciate this moderation, because it had come in handy once the opportunity to reunite both quarian and geth came into play during the mid-way point of the war. Tali, despite her previous affirmations, had changed her mind on the geth, and Shepard had found a way to become involved.

Shepard's eye closed as he remembered that grateful hug Tali had thrown about him once the hostilities on Rannoch had ceased, their world once again under quarian control. The evening had been spent sitting atop a cliff, watching the sun—a delicate drop of orange—touch the shimmering purple sea while cold winds hurtled towards the blue mountains behind them. They had crossed over stony ground to reach the place where the rocks met air in a vertical drop, past a dry creek bed, atop parched desert soil that was red and sandy while the thinly grassed hills behind them rolled in a constant torrent. All the while crimson electric lightning quaked from the dead machine god that had been felled by fire from the heavens, crumpled in a nearby basin half a kilometer away, making a reddish dusk of the distant horizon.

"A tiring day," Shepard said, "with a perfect ending." Tali had removed her visor upon that cliff, eager to experience as much of her homeworld as she could before their time was up. The two of them had then pressed their lips together in a grateful kiss, firmly bonded to the other and, for the first time in a long while, looking forward to the future.

"She's still with us, in a way," Liara offered after Shepard's eye opened serenely. "You and Roahn. I look at the two of you and… well… I just see such an uncanny resemblance."

Shepard rubbed at his temples as he considered his nearly drained glass. "Roahn. Her mother's daughter, for sure."

"_Father's_," Garrus corrected as he stood and patted the human's shoulder. "Father's daughter, too. The traits from both of you are in her, as clear as I can see it. You had a lot to deal with when Tali passed away, but damned if you didn't hold up your end of the bargain with parenting that kid. What that woman, what Roahn has become… she is the daughter that you deserved, no question about it."

"Yes," Liara agreed as she rested her own hand upon Shepard's other shoulder. "I know with everything that I have, that Tali would be proud at the job you did with raising Roahn."

It was a good thing that Shepard had only one good eye, because it would have been easy for everyone to see his eyes welling with tears. To hide this, he tilted his head downward, mumbled his thanks in a strangled voice as he suddenly felt his body warm, as if he had been thrust into a pyre. He had been privy to praises for a good portion of his life, but they had merely been byproducts of a duty that been bestowed unto him. As a Spectre and a commander in the Alliance, Shepard had only done what he had been ordered to do, nothing less. Life in the military was a job. It was easy to accept praise for doing a job.

But when it came to his family, the natural order had been discarded as blithely as a piece of rubbish. There was no stringent guideline on how to approach being a husband, being a father. He knew there was no praise waiting in the wing for performing that sort of job. As far as he knew, his 'job' was being formulated every single minute of every single day. Nothing had been routine when it came to his daughter.

Yet apparently, at the end of it all, there was some success to be gleaned.

That was hardly the point, though. Shepard had wanted to become a father not for any accolade, physical or verbal, but for the experience itself. To nurture a life into a brand new galaxy and to be called by a name other than the one he wore on his chest. No longer was his destiny inscribed in dockets and roll call sheets. It was now bound in flesh, a future so indentured and raw that the sheer unpredictability that awaited was both exhilarating and frightening to him.

When he had held his daughter for the first time, Shepard had known that his life would be forever altered henceforth. He would be standing amongst the living and all its joys, while the grim and blackened memories of his past would be willingly cast aside, the horrors of standing amongst the carbonized skulls of his enemies all now confined to his memories, to be sealed away from the forthcoming generation.

Though it turned out that his declarations had been premature. Tali's loss had thrown his plans into disarray. His fears had been cracked open and spilled like the contents of an egg. The new generation had embraced his darkness, forgiven his transgressions. He had done so much wrong in both of his lives that he believed that he would never deserve a kind word for his deeds ever again.

But here his friends were, affirming in their own voices that he had completed his duties faithfully. They spoke it without hesitation, without sarcasm. They held this earnest belief in their hearts, completely convinced at the soundness of character Shepard had demonstrated with his daughter.

Completely at a loss with what to say, Shepard dried his eye and mumbled his wordless reply of thanks once more to Liara and Garrus, taking the time to pat each one of their hands in turn. They both nodded back, content at there being nothing else to say.

A quiet lull hummed through the med bay. A reverent silence.

Just then, without any warning, Roahn quickly hustled through the doors to the medical wing, eyes wide and posture agitated. Everyone's eyes immediately gravitated to the new arrival and the quarian herself seemed to be surprised that she had burst in upon what had been a casual meeting without her knowledge.

"Ah, speak of the devil," Sam said from over by the counter.

Roahn ignored the doctor and made a beeline for her captain, who stepped away from the table to give the quarian a better line of sight. "Garrus," she said, "I was just in the comm room and I found out…" she paused as she only now seemed to fully realize a good portion of the crew was in the room with her. "Wait… why is everyone in here?"

"It was a bit of a casual get-together before we started the day, but that's not important right now," Garrus explained quickly. "You were in the comm room, you said, and you… found out what?"

"I… I… um…" Roahn had to shake her head to get herself back on track. "Aleph. I was trying to find out more information on Aleph."

"I thought that was impossible as there was nothing on the man to determine from the footage we collected of him."

"No, but there was!" Roahn eagerly pressed, raising herself upon the balls of her feet to give herself an extra inch of height. "I upscaled the footage we had and, on Aleph's armor, I found a serial number that corresponded to Alliance protocols. I tried looking the number up in the Alliance databases but I was restricted because the clearance I had wasn't enough to access any of the files the Alliance had. But the Alliance _has_ files on Aleph, which means…"

"Aleph was—or is—an Alliance agent," Garrus finished, his mandibles flaring twice.

"Exactly," Roahn's eyes lidded upward in anticipation, her hands waving animatedly at chest height.

Garrus looked over to where Shepard was sitting. "If your clearance doesn't work, we're going to need the right one. Any ideas how we could gain access to whatever files the Alliance has on this guy?"

Shepard thought for a moment. "It's not going to be possible from here. The only thing that I can think of is to go to the current head of the Alliance fleet on Earth as they have a direct line to the classification and de-classification of all operations placed under Alliance jurisdiction. The admiral there is a guy named Vulkov. Opportunistic fellow—I never liked him much. He had a reputation back when I was in the service for concentrating solely on currying favor with politicians rather than building a rapport with the people under his command. The noncoms resented him."

"Think we'll have a problem dealing with him?"

"I doubt it. Vulkov is something of a predictable sort. He's amenable to logic, which means he's not stupid."

"Would pressure also be something he's amenable to?" Garrus raised a fist and slowly clenched his fingers all for effect.

Shepard grinned. "Even more so."

Garrus raised his arm and then spoke into his omni-tool. "Sagan, set a course for the spaceport in Berlin on Earth. We're going to need a route plotted to get us to Alliance HQ right away."

"_Acknowledged, Captain Vakarian_," the geth's voice resonated over the tool. "_But be advised, the Menhir has just received and decoded a priority message from the Council on antagonistic PMC activity in a nearby system. Check your tool for the message that has been added to the queue_."

Roahn looked to her captain, breath bated. Garrus similarly had fixated his stare unto her, knowing what stance Roahn would take right off the bat. It was odd that the Council was directly stepping in on something like this, considering that they had given Garrus the ultimate authority on dictating his mission structure.

"We can let this one go, Garrus. Aleph is more important."

The turian did not look at her just yet. "Maybe…" he merely said as he found the file in question that Sagan had been referring to and activated it. An unfamiliar voice soon emitted into the air.

"_Captain Vakarian, this is an automated message from the Council's Militant Authority. We have received an urgent mayday from a Defender convoy in the Albireo system that is currently under attack by unknown forces. The convoy is carrying valuable cargo and does not estimate that their fighting force is enough to overcome the attack. The Menhir is the closest ship available to provide assistance. We request that you jump to the Albireo system and rescue the stricken convoy, along with its cargo, before their destruction is made imminent."_

The message ended without any more requests, leaving the people in the room to awkwardly stare at inanimate objects for inspiration before the first words left their mouths.

Garrus flexed his empty fingers, the shimmer in his eyes pensive. His executive officer noticed the wayward stare and recognized the first indication of a splintering route.

"Garrus," Roahn was the first to break the silence, "this is _Aleph_ we're talking about. You can't—"

The turian shook his head, cutting Roahn off. He paced a portion of the room for a few seconds, weighing the option in his mind while silently requesting the solitude that quiet brought so he could allow his own opinion to be the one performing the measuring. He glanced at Roahn, noted her squared stance, and her almost expectant attitude that her suggestion should be taken almost as sacrosanct. His eyes then flicked over to Shepard, still seated at the table. The old friends locked eyes for a long moment, which ended when Shepard gave a brief shrug and looked away. Roahn noticed the gesture and her jaw fell open slightly behind her mask.

It was not an answer nor a confirmation for Garrus. However, it was enough.

"Sagan," Garrus spoke into his omni-tool as he wheeled out the door. "Change of plan. Take us to the Albireo system and prep the _Menhir_ for combat. We're in relative close proximity to the system but we need to move fast. I want—," His voice trailed away as he left the room.

Left to contend with the vacuum that had taken Garrus' place, Roahn angrily turned toward her father, her face no doubt incredulous with astonishment behind that visor. She would not call this man "father" or "dad" in front of everyone as she struggled to find the correct address that felt appropriate in this context. Doing so would just make her seem small in comparison—it would be hard to get the idea out of anyone's head that Roahn, when potentially left in gridlock on certain decisions, would run and whine to her father about setting things her way. It would give her the appearance of appearing incredibly self-centered, not to mention a little egotistic.

She was still staring hotly at her father, who no doubt understood the current turmoil that was plaguing his daughter. He looked up at her pleading eyes and gave a withering look. "It was not the right time," he simply said to her.

"It was not the right choice," she mustered.

Roahn then read the room and deduced that now was not the time to press her protests further, despite this sudden stabbing feeling in her chest indicating to her that delays in finding more about Aleph could be fatal mistakes to everyone on board this ship. Infuriated, she followed her captain's lead and abruptly left the room, quite content on stewing in her fury about how this upcoming deviation for a damn rescue mission was an error and that her father's ambivalence was equivalent to overruling her own choices—exactly the sort of situation Shepard had promised not to put himself in.

She tried very hard to not think of it as a betrayal but her will was too weak to resist.

* * *

**A/N: Perhaps a little late before the turn of the decade, but at least I get to start 2020 off this way! Good timing too, as I'll be trapped in a hotel in Dallas for the next day or so, with no way to write, so the timing is certainly fortuitous.**

**(It looks like some of the formatting in the last chapter got screwed up when it was last released. Those errors have since been corrected.)**

**As you can probably imagine, I'll be bringing the action back to the story with the next chapter, though I will say that it will be rather different than the action scenes that I've done in the past. If I've done any at all like what I'm about to do, in fact. I'm optimistic about the whole affair and I'll certainly be eager to hear your thoughts, once it comes out. Until then, have a happy New Year and enjoy the chapter!**

**Playlist:**

**The Representatives Muse**  
**"We Are Never Free"**  
**Lorne Balfe**  
**Mission Impossible: Fallout (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Roahn's Calculations/Face-Off (Roahn Theme Occurrence)**  
**"A.C.I.D."**  
**Ben Prunty**  
**Into the Breach (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Memory of Tali**  
**"Picking this Life"**  
**Patrick Doyle**  
**Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Distress Call/Decision**  
**"Good Engineer"**  
**Justin Hurwitz**  
**First Man (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack**


	18. Chapter 18: Stretch Those Wings

"_The Hammerhead is not rated for vacuum, water or lava traversal, sustained afterburner usage, or any contact with objects in motion above 3 KPH."_

"_Number of Alliance Hammerheads in service: 15,000"_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_Albireo System_

"Relay traversal in thirty seconds," Sagan announced as his limber fingers swept across the blade of holographic keyboards both in front and around him. Displays of shipboard schematics and tertiary systems were stacked on top of one another, totem-like. "Stand by."

Gripping the backside of the geth's seat, Garrus leaned forward as he tried to make sense of the impenetrable maze of codified text that scribbled down the screens in a torrential downpour. Behind him, Roahn stood with her arms crossed, foot tapping upon the floor, a locus of pressure right at the top of her stomach keeping her in an agitated state. The quarian had to make a conscious effort to keep her expression—what little of it could be gleaned—relatively focused and not at all in a display of annoyance. There would be time to focus on her personal feelings later.

"Take us in, Sagan," Garrus ordered as he stared straight ahead. "Keep the drift down to a satisfactory margin. We're anticipating some traffic on the other side."

"Acknowledged, captain."

The _Menhir_ gave a subtle burst of speed as it raced towards the looming object that was one of the many mass relays that punctuated the entire galaxy. A core of brimming blue-white energy was being contained by a series of continually rotating rings—parts of the relay that were seemingly moving slowly but were actually travelling at several hundreds of miles per hour. The relay pointed outward into a dark portion of space, shaped like a gun, and the _Menhir_ began a scraping approach as it began to come up lengthwise towards the massive object.

A languid bolt of energy, almost fluid, reached out from the relay's core and touched the _Menhir _as the ship flew by. Immediately, all of the propulsion systems on board of the ship skyrocketed into hyper-mode as the transferred energy raced into the power wells.

Two seconds later, there was a harsh snap as the _Menhir's_ overcharged thrusters expelled the newly accumulated energy all at once, sending the craft hurtling into a frame of space unguided by Newtonian physics.

Blinding white light hurtled in from the cockpit's skylights, tinged with indigo streaks. The floor of the ship remained stable and calm, a mill pond. Roahn swayed in place, caught up with imagining turbulence, and had to reach out to a nearby counter to steady herself. Garrus kept on staring straight ahead, completely focused, his knees slightly bent.

Roahn started to count the seconds since the _Menhir_ had jolted into relay-space, but she needn't have bothered. In the next moment, the light shift from the immense burst of velocity faded like a candle being snuffed. A blink of the eye once again revealed gentle stars hovering overhead, looking like holes that had been punched into a blanket.

"We have reached out destination," Sagan said in his usual timbre. "Albireo system is in range. Drift has been targeted at 953K. Running soft scans of the immediate area now."

"Well done," Garrus said. "Keep us posted when you find the convoy."

Roahn was barely paying attention to the conversation as she edged closer to the starboard-side viewport. A warm glow diffused from outside the craft, flung in by the two distinctly rounded objects many millions of miles away.

Even though she had been to many places in the galaxy, Roahn had never seen a binary star system before in her life. The Albireo system's two stars were both named, rather originally, Beta Cygni 1 and Beta Cygni 2. Number 1 was the color of the surface of a molten copper lake, while number 2 was the vivid color of an undersea block of ice. What was interesting about this particular system was that both suns were close enough to each other that they were mutually distorting their outer stellar atmospheres. Their gravitational forces were pulling at their close ends, rendering each to be slightly lopsided. Roahn remembered from her studies that this phenomenon was known as a Roche lobe overflow. A knot of solar storms ravaged between the two astronomical bodies, creating a permanent tempest zone denser than a nebula and more dangerous than any hurricane an atmospheric planet could hope to muster.

This did not seem to interest Garrus, who quickly pointed at a section of the tactical map, whereupon the _Menhir's_ scanning pulses had picked up a series of artificial objects near the edge of the binary sun's accretion disc. There were no transmissions in the area to be picked up, and since Albireo was a relatively empty system in terms of populated settlements, Garrus did not hesitate in ordering Sagan to make an unobtrusive approach.

Roahn's breath grew quiet as the _Menhir's_ interior lights slowly flashed a pure white down the hall, the indicator to the crew that the ship was now running in silent mode. The _Menhir_ had all of the stealth capabilities that both _Normandy_ ships had had, so they could theoretically park this ship alongside the bridge of an enemy war frigate and have them be none the wiser unless they had the desire to glance out one of their windows for whatever reason. Despite the advantage, the stealth systems were only effective if the clueless enemy had no idea that the _Menhir_ was even in range—there were certain targeting systems that would be able to hone in on the _Menhir_ even with the systems on, not to mention that the stealth technology was no longer a hidden innovation, meaning that if a certain group had enough funds they could theoretically manufacture their own countermeasures against that technology.

Despite this, the mood in the cockpit was relatively calm. Garrus was taking infrequent glances at the map, ensuring that no one in the area was taking an unkind interest in them. Roahn returned to her position, her previous woes forgotten for the moment, as she waited for the next command with bated, and painful, breath.

As they neared, it became obvious that their arrival, however expedited it had been, had been tardy. LADAR scans were showcasing a somewhat jagged line comprised of what used to be fully functional ships. It would not be too big of a guess to assume that this was the Defender convoy. The remains of it, at least.

However, thermal readouts were showing erratic blooms of heat at odd points upon the hulls of the ships that had comprised this doomed voyage. Their thrusters were dark purple, like a bruise, while pinpricks of orange and yellow dotted the layout like static. This was illustrative of precise turret-fire—the projectiles they fired were so fast they could bore through standard starcraft steel in such a way and at such speed that solid metal would be rendered to paste in less than a second. Garrus and Sagan flipped through the profiles of each of the darkened ships. All had been disabled or outright destroyed. Dead in the water.

They had arrived too late.

Garrus' eyes narrowed as he tried not to think about the number of Defender crewmembers that had gone down with their respective ships. Someone must have screwed up so badly to reveal the location of this convoy—a mole in the Defenders, perhaps? In any case, he tried to put all his anger behind him as the _Menhir_ neared the ship graveyard. He was this ship's captain, it would not do to let his emotions rule his actions. An old friend had taught him that.

"Any survivors?" Garrus asked, though he already knew what the answer was going to be.

"Negative," Sagan said after a few seconds. "Based on the rate of thermal decay on the wreckage, our arrival occurred at least twenty-five standard minutes after the last Defender ship was downed."

"Twenty-five minutes?" Garrus' hands clenched tightly against his sides. "Wanton destruction is not the usual MO for a PMC. They had to have had an ulterior motive to hit this convoy. Robbing them, perhaps? If this was a smash and grab, it would take a lot longer than twenty-five minutes to complete an objective like that. I don't think we're alone here, Sagan. Send out a probe to the other side of the operating area and have it give a ping when it's in position."

The geth acknowledged the order and Roahn watched out the window as a brief contrail of blue light shot from the underside of the _Menhir_. The ship had a payload of planetary probes that it used to scan for mineral deposits on planets, but the probes had the capability to act as signal amplifiers or even as remote transmitters—a way to throw off enemy detection sensors by creating an aura of invisible noise.

It took a few minutes for Sagan to activate the probe's thrusters, to slow it to a reasonable velocity so that it could begin its duties once it was in position. On the tactical map, Roahn saw a loud burst of radiated rings brim from the other side of the convoy that the _Menhir_ was located—the representation of the flurry of signals the probe had begun to send out in earnest. In an instant, seven red triangular icons popped up on the map, previously hidden from the initial scans as the smorgasbord of pings from the probe lit up every corner of space in every energy frequency imaginable.

"Detecting faint unknown signatures surrounding the wreckage of the convoy," Sagan reported as more diagrams of angular craft filled the screens. "No verified affiliation."

Garrus chuckled as he watched the positions of the enemy craft begin to orient themselves now that they knew that someone was onto them. "And they thought they had some privacy here."

A yellow icon ignited in front of Sagan's optics. "The probe has been fired upon," he said. "We are picking up a missile lock. Detonation in three, two, one. Confirm signal loss."

The representation for the probe had disappeared from the map, the bands of transmission frequencies vanished along with it. The enemy icons still remained, as they could no longer hide from the _Menhir_ now that its pilot knew what to look for.

"We're still undetected, but they're not going to play subtle for very long," Roahn offered. "They know someone's here with them now."

"Agreed," Garrus said. "Best we should get as detailed of a readout on these guys as we can, and report back to the Council with—"

"Captain," Sagan suddenly interjected. "We're now picking up a small vessel coming from the third wrecked Defender ship."

Garrus and Roahn hurried over as the geth started to explode the map in greater detail, zooming into the area of interest. "Think it could be an escape pod?" the turian asked.

"Negative. The contours do not match any profile in any registry for an escape pod. Prepare to receive visual."

Up above, a new screen glimmered into existence and a tightly focused lens honed in on the moving object that traversed between the cracked halves of one of the ships. Through glowing trails of plasma amidst a hailstorm of furiously spinning metal, a lanky and spindly craft gently moved through the detritus, an array of glowing sensors on its circular face burning almost as brightly as the twin suns behind it. A bevy of skeletal arms trailed limply underneath its chassis, two of them clutching what appeared to be a cargo container half the size of a skycar.

"That's a remotely controlled construction drone," Roahn furiously pointed to the screen. "And look, it's holding something."

"Thermal profiles of the unknown interceptors are starting to climb," Sagan reported. "One is moving on an intercept course to the drone. There is a high possibility that the container holds the object in question that necessitated this attack."

"They're preparing to leave," Roahn said. "They used the drone to slice the ship's hold open."

Garrus shook his head. "Then I think it's time we exact a little payback on these guys." He then slapped the button to the ship-wide comm, projecting his voice to every corner of the ship. "All hands, prepare for attack! Get to your assigned stations and be ready to receive orders!"

Klaxons reverberated around every bend, down every corridor, floating into the ears of every crewmember that occupied an atom of space within the ship. From behind her, Roahn could discern the figures of Skye and Korridon hustling towards the cockpit, both wearing rather worried looks.

"What's going on?" Skye breathed as she slowed her gait. "Are we being fired upon?"

"Just wait for a moment," Roahn had to wave the two down, uncertain of what her captain had in mind.

Hovering over the geth's shoulder, Garrus worked at confirming the activation of several onboard systems. "Weapons… online. Targeting… online. We've got scopes, radar… all systems green. Sagan, plot our own intercept course on that drone and prep the tractor beam." He then turned to Roahn and the others standing behind him. He pointed two fingers at the quarian and Skye. "You two, take some of the turret seats. And you…" he then pointed at Korridon but blinked as his brain finally reminded him whom he was looking at. "You. _You?_ What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in engineering?"

"All the techs have to do down there is maintain the performance parameters I've outlined," Korridon defended. "Besides, I have training on shipboard weapons systems."

That threw Garrus for a loop. "Really?"

"Yes… really," Korridon flatly responded, as if that had been a trick question.

"Oh. Okay, then. Take a seat at a station."

The three subordinates clambered into the curvaceous, gel-filled chairs that flanked either side of the passageway that connected the cockpit to the CIC. Roahn lifted her arms for the auto-restraints to loop over her shoulders and waist. A holographic console glimmered around her body, detecting her presence. Roahn's hands now had control over two of the defensive cannons that dotted the topmost portion of the _Menhir's_ hull. Beside her, she could see Skye settle into position and she assumed that Korridon was doing the same as well behind her.

Back at the front, Garrus had pulled over a screen for his own personal use. He took a moment to look over the scope of the battlefield. There were seven enemy ships, all the same make and model. They were slightly smaller than the _Menhir_, but Garrus knew that meant little seeing as he was outnumbered. The enemy's vessels were made up of sharply angular panels, looking very much like raptors in a dive bomb. Their weapons emplacements had to be embedded within their design—the sensor's scanners could not pick up anything otherwise. No way to tell if they were carrying missiles or ship-to-ship cannons. Even for a craft as adept as the _Menhir_, walking into this encounter blindly would be suicide.

"Sagan," Garrus stated slowly, "get a line on that drone and prep the GARDIAN laser system. Do not set to automatic. I only want one round between that thing's eyes."

"Roger," Sagan said. "Standing by."

"Activate thrusters."

Roahn glanced towards the front to see the curtain of stars start to spiral into a torrid blur out of the viewports. Her stomach gave a small lurch and she turned back to her screens, which indeed showed that the Menhir was now on a direct line towards the wreckage of the convoy.

And the enemy drone with its spoils of war.

"Let's see how badly we can piss these guys off," Garrus said. "Sagan, activate GARDIAN lasers."

There was a minute pulse through the _Menhir_ as one of the underslung cannons hurtled a bolt of sun-yellow light through the infinite night. Roahn watched through her screens as the laser beam clipped the top of the drone, decapitating it, and sending it spinning aimlessly with the cargo container torn from its limp grip.

"Thrusters to full!" Garrus rapidly commanded. "Get the tractor beam on that container. Let's see if we can pick it up as we fly by."

Even with acceleration dampeners, there was still a lurch through the ship as Sagan pushed the _Menhir's_ engines to their limit in sublight space. The enemy must have been shocked into paralysis, because no one fired as the _Menhir_ spat through the weightless void, punching its way through thin layers of vaporized metal and clouds of atomized eezo cores. Roahn mirrored the feeds from Skye's keel-mounted turrets and beheld a thin gray beam extending from the Menhir like a grasping arm, scooping up kernels of debris in the process, but also collecting the burnt orange rectangular box that floated aimlessly, having been torn from two of its owners in the span of an hour.

Roahn watched as the tractor beam sucked the container upwards and into the outermost hold in the _Menhir's_ cargo bay. She cracked a smile at the same time she heard Sagan confirm a successful retrieval. Snatched from the clutches of a PMC! Oh, how she would have loved to have seen the looks on their faces when they realized that _they_ were being robbed!

_En masse_, the seven enemy vessels all powered on their engines at the same time. Clearly these guys were not happy about this new development. It would have been rather amusing to witness if Roahn knew this did not herald danger for her and her crew.

"Well, if they were expecting a pushover then I guess they got more than their money's worth," Garrus quipped. To Roahn and the other gunners, he travelled a few steps in their direction. "The ships are on an intercept course for us and we're a fair distance from the relay to make an escape. Looks like we're shooting our way out."

"Fun for the whole family," Skye sighed.

Garrus looked to Roahn for her thoughts, now that time was starting to run out. "It's about time we put this thing through its paces," she said.

The turian cracked a mirthful look and headed back to the cockpit to strap into the copilot's seat. He then ordered Sagan to take the _Menhir_ on a flyby near the Beta Cygni suns. At full burn, the _Menhir_ launched itself towards the stars, chaff and tangled webs of radar chatter strewn behind to throw off the array of torpedoes that had just been launched in its direction. Alarms began to ring all around the interior, but they quickly quieted because the countermeasures Sagan had already deployed had worked in their favor—the torpedoes' trajectory wobbled, became even more unsteady, and timidly limped away in the wrong direction.

Roahn rotated her rearward turret and unleashed a short volley of gauss rounds towards the tightening cluster of enemy frigates. A necklace of violently hot tungsten and depleted uranium spat from both barrels, a dazzling line that separated a section of empty space. On her targeting screen, she saw two of the vessels engage their thrusters to avoid the incoming fire, but at least their pattern of getting into formation had been disrupted. They seemed to be more cautious now that they were going up against a foe that could actually shoot back.

"We are being targeted again," Sagan called out.

"Another round of countermeasures," Garrus ordered. "Once their torpedo fails, rotate 180 degrees but continue current bearing. Prep the Thanix for a round."

"One's breaking off from the main group," Korridon said. "I'll keep him in line."

Roahn shifted her view to watch Korridon's screen. His display was filled with millions of light pinpricks as his own fire blended in amongst the slurry of stars and cosmic anomalies. The young turian's fire succeeded in preventing one of the enemy craft from diverting onto a flanking route. A good eye from the supposedly insubordinate engineer.

She manually locked her line of sight on the targets before the _Menhir_ started its rapid rotation. Her HUD was now popping up with the words "UNKNOWN AFFILIATION" in blocky red type next to each one of the incoming bogeys. They were still too far away to be accurate with her turrets, but that did not matter because Sagan angled the ship just so right before unleashing an accelerated slag of molten metal in a thick beam of the purest cerulean. There was barely any time to register the soft ring of flame that emitted from the direct hit because Sagan quickly took the _Menhir_ back into a series of complex maneuvers that put the ship on seemingly a collision course with one of the suns.

The _Menhir's_ computers plus Sagan's own artificial mind were performing in tandem immaculately. The geth was reacting to the enemy fire with consummate skill and was able to maneuver or deflect incoming gauss or torpedo attacks with quick adjustments that lurched the ship back and forth, forcing the enemy to adjust their targeting constantly.

Beta Cygni 2 loomed into view, a distorted ball of fire the color of the sea. Sagan rotated the _Menhir_ so that the top was skimming thousands of miles over the surface. Might as well have been a dozen meters, for the shields were already starting to strain from the intense heat the sun exuded. Sagan's display showed that they were already at 72% and rapidly falling. The ship raced over the surface, a thick dot that blotted the vile storm that churned within reach. Arms of fire and superheated gas raced upwards, eager to snatch the craft out of the air, but the _Menhir_ spat through the danger effortlessly, trailing its own inferno as it screamed through the dead space where no planet could reside.

As Sagan flew around the circumference of Beta Cygni 2, Roahn immediately spotted on her screen that one of the enemy ships had decided to come around in the opposite direction. It almost looked like they were on a collision course. Swiftly, she positioned her turrets for a rapid salvo and held down the trigger as soon as the crosshairs touched the central portion of the darkened ship.

Spirals of light extended from each side—magnificent bursts of vibrant and deadly metal in a doomed dance. The _Menhir_ shuddered and jumped violently to one side, causing Roahn's shoulder to be jerked into her harness.

Both ships passed within a dozen miles of each other. Had this been in atmosphere, the turbulent ripples would have been fatal at this speed.

"Hits registered!" Sagan alerted.

"Structural damage?" Garrus pressed.

"Negative. Shields continuing to hold at 37%"

"And the other guy?"

Roahn had been so uptight about being hit that she had completely forgotten to look at the results of her volley. She faced her turret screen and blinked as she saw the remains of the interceptor slowly proceed to break apart in the Menhir's wake.

"I… I _got_ him," she stammered, not at all expecting such a result.

"Hell of a shot!" Skye crowed beside her, her grin infectious. Roahn returned the smile (as best as she could), truthfully grateful that she could count on the human to communicate her euphoria without running the risk of being egotistical.

"We're not done yet," Garrus commented grimly. "Still five more to go. Sagan, any more information on these guys?"

The geth did not look over at the turian. "Structural profiles of the interceptors are still not showing on any databases. However, rapid captures of wing serial numbers suggest that their affiliation has a strong percentage of being linked to the PMC Dark Horizon."

"Dark Horizon?" Garrus repeated. "That's the Aeronaut's outfit."

_Aleph's personal guard_, Roahn realized. She was about to make a dramatic comment, when she felt Skye's fingertips brush the side of her arm, calling her attention over.

"Don't think about it," Skye said, face serious. "Let's just finish this right now."

Her head rotating back forward, Roahn rolled her shoulders and gave a withering sigh. _She's right_. Now was not the time to be distracted. There was a battle to be won here. With renewed vigor, she straightened her arms, narrowed her gaze, and swung her guns around to get a new angle.

Sagan's console was a mess of layered screens as he continuously opened and closed panel after panel, continually striving to be appraised of the Menhir's performance. "Captain," he said to Garrus, "that last burst damaged our countermeasure hatch. We will need to perform repairs if we are to bring it back online."

Garrus absorbed this news rather tacitly. "We're not exactly near a shipyard, Sagan," he said as he too started to pull up screens of the area. "Pulling over to fix a broken hatch isn't really an option right now."

"Alert!" Sagan then called out. "Two interceptors have moved into position behind us. They have fired on us and have obtained missile locks."

"Talk about timing," Garrus groused. The _Menhir's_ threat system was tracking the frigates as well as the two smaller and much faster objects that were racing to intercept the ship. "Sagan, I'm going to need you to perform defensive maneuvers."

"We request that you clarify." This was the most confused Roahn had ever heard the geth before.

Garrus pushed his own display over to Sagan so the geth could look. In it, he had outlined a course path that, even from where Roahn was sitting, the proposal seemed so outlandish that she was hoping that it was her eyesight that was failing and not her captain's mind.

"What is he doing up there?!" Skye craned her head over.

Slowly, Roahn shook her head. "I hope it's not what I think."

But Sagan was not built to challenge orders, or to even mull on the morality of accepting such orders. Bound by this infernal pact, the geth took the controls of the Menhir, started to execute a sharp teardrop-shaped loop…

…and hurtled the ship straight towards the braided cluster of storms and energy that tied the two suns together.

A zone of intense gravitational forces and light so voracious it signaled a fertile hunger, not an organic sensation that could be quelled, but a natural order to find an equilibrium, an impassive wave of pressure and force. It cared not to the whim of what magnitude an idea could form. The band that tied the suns together was not an anomaly but simply an _occurrence_. Its concepts were only that of turmoil or peace. Any other factor could not hope to be added to the equation.

And Garrus was sending the _Menhir_ straight into it.

The suns were separated by millions of miles, but at this speed the scale was all distorted. It might as well have been a tiny crevasse cracked into the side of a canyon wall. The blurry orange band looked like clouds, though Roahn knew the intensity of the solar forces being exchanged between the two bodies had enough kinetic energy to crush the _Menhir_ into the size of a canteen if Sagan flew them into the wrong spot.

"Bogeys one and two still in pursuit," Skye muttered as she was starting to shake in her crash harness. "I can't get a lock on these guys. They're too far aft."

"I'll take priority," Korridon said, his eyes locked onto his screen.

The _Menhir_ ignored the trails of dotted gauss fire behind it as it dove headfirst into the maelstrom at suicidal speeds. Lighting arcs erupted from outside, so bright they illuminated the gunner corridor of the ship. The ship lurched this way and that, but the unflappable geth kept the _Menhir_ positioned straight. Heat and streaks of violent gases swept by the hull, rapidly eating up what little shields remained.

But the instrumentation was still up. Had it not been, the ship would have been flying completely blind. Even from here, Roahn could see nothing but a sandy cloud that was the gravitational band out the windows. Her camera feeds were useless. They showed nothing but a vague outline of the hull. Her targeting computer was also shaky—or was that her body? The ship's violent shaking certainly was not doing her concentration any favors.

"Bogeys are in our wake," Korridon reported as the _Menhir_ briefly dipped to avoid a crushing gravity bubble. "Not for long."

The computer was showing that the interceptors were mimicking the _Menhir's_ exact movements through the storm. Perhaps they were not confident in their own abilities to try and forge a path for themselves. Either way, once the _Menhir_ had raised itself slightly, Korridon now had a perfect firing line on their pursuers. With both hands controlling a turret each, the turian swept his line of fire in short arcs, trying to fill the hole made after tearing through the solar clouds. Heavy ferromagnetic rounds ripped through the two craft, neither one breaking path, and their detonations were quickly swallowed up in the turbulence. One of the bogeys spiraled out of control for a brief moment, a wing sheared off, and came into contact with a fatal rondure of violent pulverizing gravity. The craft seemed to hang in space, motionless, before it completely folded in on itself in a microsecond, its entire structure crumpled into the size of a heat sink before its doomed crew could even wonder, _"What happened?"_

Korridon laughed and scratched a mandible in relief. "Two down."

Roahn had wheeled around in her chair and stared at Korridon in wide-eyed disbelief. "_Who would've thought he can use a turret better than a pistol?_" she muttered to herself. Certainly not her, that was for damn sure.

Breaking through the tempest, the _Menhir_ calmed as its acceleration dampeners were finally able to overcome the impertinent shoves the suns had been exerting. Streams of plasma and burning gas trailed from the ship's wings before the rapidly dropping temperatures snuffed them out for good.

"Spirits," Garrus sighed, "that worked better than I hoped."

"We will be reengaged in approximately twenty-six seconds, captain," Sagan said. "Three remaining contacts approaching around Beta Cygni 2."

"They're not cutting their losses. They must really want what we snatched from them." Garrus then checked his star chart of the system before pointing out a highlighted section. "Sagan, I'm going to need for you to get a little inventive."

The geth cocked his head—an imitative gesture. "Awaiting instructions."

"There's a world here in the Goldilocks zone. Gallinae. It has an atmosphere and a liquid surface. Do you think that you can FTL jump us to the planet as close as possible before initiating an atmospheric insertion?"

"The _Menhir's_ capabilities can accommodate for this," Sagan said. "I must advise you that such a short jump will not prevent the ship from being tracked."

"I know and I'm not worried about that. I'm just thinking we can keep using the terrain to our advantage. Jump us whenever you can, Sagan. I think they're about to lock onto us."

"Acknowledged," the geth offered immediately before a few taps upon his console sent the _Menhir_ briefly hurtling into a dimension far beyond what light could fathom. Molecules were stretched to their breaking point, though for the people inside the ship this could not be felt. There was no time to take stock of the all-too-brief FTL jump for reality rubber-banded into place outside the windows in a snap, though the stars appeared to wobble in place as if the entirety of the crew had simultaneously experienced a drunken binge.

There was a slight buffeting as the _Menhir_ tilted and pushed its way through Gallinae's atmosphere. The turbulent forces were so much easier to navigate than the hellstorm that had been the Beta Cygni bands—Sagan was not relaying any warnings to Garrus at this time.

Taking a moment to compose herself, Roahn splayed out the targeting feeds on her display. "All three bogeys are continuing pursuit," she called out. She tried to maneuver her turrets around but many red-outlined error warnings began to pop up on her screen. "The suns have damaged the turret's mechanisms. I can't move them!"

"I'm out as well!" Skye groaned.

"Same here," Korridon added.

"Sagan's sending some repair drones out to mitigate the damage," Garrus turned around in his seat. "Don't worry, I have a plan."

The perfunctory pilot navigated the ship through the thin slices that were the stratosphere before spearing the cloud layer without hesitation. A kingfisher in flight, the _Menhir_ began to level out as new topography scans were showing up on the sensors, outlining a spiraling tangle of canyons all surrounded by a large body of water. Garrus directed Sagan to head towards it, confident in his crew's conduct.

The _Menhir_ broke through the thick and pregnant bellies of the clouds and flared out to avoid the path of a nearby mountain. The ethereal glow from the twin suns cast a hallucinatory shine amongst the landscape: jagged islands dotting the horizon surrounded by the endless sea, and in the middle of that expanse, a wide ravine at least three miles wide that looked like a wrathful god had pummeled the very earth, cracking the ocean in two. The canyon stretched on for seemingly an eternity, an oddity amongst the bare and raw world. Water poured in on both sides of the towering walls, producing curtains of waterfalls that draped the sudden crack, but the ocean had to be draining out at the bottom of the canyon for the crevasse was not being filled. Massive but thin clouds of salty spray plumed into the air, etching the formation's path as it shattered the planet's surface.

"Take us down there," Garrus pointed to the canyon.

"Captain," Sagan alerted, "the _Menhir's_ engines will overheat if we spend too much time in an environment saturated with water vapor."

"Then I guess we'll just have to hope that these guys' engines are rated for less. Do it."

Like a stone, the _Menhir_ dropped several miles before the world swallowed it whole. Now below sea level, the ship traced the path of the canyon, almost lazily avoiding the waterfall sides that trailed mist and vapor. Clouds of steam spiraled in erratic vortices behind the ship and the thick clouds below flattened as the thrashing wake of its traversal interrupted its formation.

On unsteady legs, Roahn clambered out of her seat to rejoin Garrus in the cockpit. She held onto the back of Sagan's chair as she watched the edges of the canyon overhead occasionally close in onto the ship claustrophobically. Taking a peek out the window certainly did not help. It did not bring the quarian any assurances to see just rapid embankments of foaming water form the boundaries of the _Menhir's_ flight path. It was as if gravity had been inverted with the vertical levees seeming like they could burst at any moment and drown the ship before a cry could be uttered.

_This is crazy._

The sentiment could be shared for the final three pursuers, who had not hesitated in following the _Menhir_ down into the abyss. One interceptor had gotten a little overzealous with his steep approach though, and had to bank suddenly to avoid smashing into one of the sides of the fissure. However, he corrected too late and his rightmost engine was quickly submerged by a column of falling water during his turn, flooding it and causing the temperature to drop just enough that the ignition chamber failed to fire any further. Embarking into a death spiral, the dark craft looped once, twice, before it smashed upon a weathered stone pillar in a fiery explosion, the flames quickly being extinguished from the nearby spray.

Just two more to go.

"A little faith!" Garrus crowed as he noted the detonation on his sensors.

"Yeah… great…" Roahn tried to muster the same enthusiasm but was feeling a bit queasy from the constant rattling.

The canyon suddenly banked into a sharp curve, but Sagan oriented the _Menhir_ that it scraped along the ragged scar, the engines increasing their output to prevent any altitude loss. Warnings from the engine temperature sensors and from the missile lock alerts blended together in a shrill whine, nearly drowning out all sound as Sagan finally levelled the ship out. Pale fire streaked from the _Menhir's_ four engines and cones of heat rippled out in punishing shockwaves behind them.

"We have been fired upon," Sagan reported as one of his panels ignited with a flurry of alarms. A missile had just been flung from one of the interceptors.

Garrus was too absorbed to make a comment on that.

Roahn was fixated on the targeting display and watched in astonishment as the missile struggled to maintain a smooth trajectory through the air. The turbulence from both the waterfalls and the _Menhir_ was heavily altering its ability to close the distance and it soon angled away uselessly and disappeared to create a brief dome of vaporized water upon one of the walls as it exploded.

"We're getting our shields back," Roahn said as she grabbed one of the floating displays over in her direction. "But at this current rate we'll lose our engines in less than a minute. They're getting too hot for these maneuvers, Garrus."

"I understand," the turian said evenly as he clutched the armrests of the copilot's chair. He seemed remarkably calm… or he could have been petrified out of his mind. One or the other. Having no facial muscles made determining turian moods difficult. "We'll stay here until the last possible moment. When we get in the right position, I'll order a break to the—"

"Captain!" Skye suddenly called from back down the corridor.

Garrus craned his head. "What is it?"

"The bogeys are falling back! They're slowing!"

Roahn and Garrus shared a look before they both opened their own view onto Skye's feed. Sure enough, the images from the exterior cameras were showing that not only were the darkened craft both dropping at a rapid pace, they were also slowing quite badly.

"How about that?" Garrus said in a self-satisfied tone. "They've overheated both their engines."

Roahn rapidly took a moment to think. "I don't understand. Those craft are smaller than the _Menhir_ and those engines look to be radically designed for atmosphere. Less mass to propel means less exertion on the engines. How come they died before we did?"

"They were in our wake," Sagan answered Roahn's questions. "The canyon was making the conditions for a long-range missile lock on the _Menhir_ to be impossible. They had to close the distance to obtain a suitable line of sight. The _Menhir_ has been superheating the steam behind us, which drastically increased the air temperature."

"So the air their engines ingested was already scalding hot to begin with," Roahn realized. "They just couldn't cope. I see."

Another glance at the display showed that the angular ships had finally had enough of passing through the air churned up by the _Menhir's_ fire zone, but it was too late for them to correct. Gravity now had them in their clutches. The last two ships tried to rise, but their engines sputtered and quit with pathetic wheezes. Choking on droplet-infused air, they tipped upward to get a last view of the sky and the salvation that waited beyond the invisible boundaries before they accepted the fatefulness of their situation and crashed into the waterfalls on the sides of the canyons. They were pulverized to smithereens and soon the water swallowed up all traces of their existence.

"Where _did_ you learn that trick from?" Roahn asked in astonishment as Sagan finally sent the _Menhir_ climbing to hurtle through the sky until it was back in space, where it belonged.

Garrus shrugged, though his eyes betrayed quite a bit of mirth. "The last pilot I had the pleasure of working with."

The turian leaned forward to gently smooth his gloved fingers over the dashboard. A silent acknowledgement. A moment of pride for the ship that had done everything that had been asked of it and showed no sign of letting its crew down.

The _Menhir_ had earned its stripes.

* * *

It took nearly half an hour for everyone on the CIC deck to finally calm down after the festivities from earlier that day. Not altogether surprising, seeing as this had been the first real test of the _Menhir's_ capabilities in a warlike scenario. Garrus and Roahn spent that time with Sagan going over the ship's internal systems, trying to recalibrate everything back to normal cruising conditions as well as fix whatever mechanisms had been damaged during the skirmish to the best of their ability. The geth had sent the ship on course for the closest mass relay, keeping a steady but brisk pace in a hurried effort to leave the system in case any more undesirable forces were casually loitering around.

Once those final checks had been completed, Roahn and Garrus took the elevator down two levels to the engineering deck. Korridon had gone down here right afterward once it had been confirmed that the contents of the container that the ship had stolen prior to the fight had been removed and were placed in one of the smaller side labs on the level (the room formerly known as the Port Cargo area). He and Liara had just begun to perform their analysis on whatever bounty they had whisked away—a natural locus for Roahn's curiosity to latch onto.

Entering the room, Roahn was surprised and just the tiniest bit miffed to see her father already there, but she shrugged that off as she saw what Korridon and Liara were clustered around.

It had been propped up on a miniature crystal bench that itself sat upon a portable table. Various lenses and pronged instruments were levelled in its direction. Holographic spectroscopes, warbling bar charts, and other shifting metrics were dazzling all around the object, performing various readouts out of their newest prize. A halo of purpled light spun around the diameter of the object, betraying faint hexagonal sections of the clear shield that enveloped it.

A sable sphere of polished ebon. Stone-thick, but glossy enough to give away its metallic origins. Asymmetric ridges broke up the surface like mountains, making it appear that the outer crust had melted and hardened several times over—there were many points where it looked like the bumps folded over one another, mimicking tectonic plates. Straight and impassive etched lines had been carved in the face of varying thicknesses. Not a language, but a pattern. One that was impossible to decipher.

Roahn bent down to get a closer look at the obelisk. So, _this_ was what Dark Horizon had been trying to nab from that convoy. All those people had died… for this little thing?

Standing over her, Garrus tilted his head as he too appeared confused at their latest acquisition. "Why is in a shield? Is this thing radioactive?"

"To an extent," Liara said. "It's emitting only non-ionizing radiation. At lower frequencies than radio waves, to be exact. It's quite safe, but I figured it was best to exercise the full extent of caution we could muster."

"So this isn't a mineral that can naturally create this low-frequency radiation, right? Is that a hint that this was manufactured? Is it a machine of some kind?"

"X-ray scans have been inconclusive. It's made out of a dense metal that has similar properties to lead. But what we can say for certain is that this is in no way under any power source. There's no battery generating this level of energy, which, I might add, is quite powerful considering the source, but still harmless to organics."

Garrus leaned forward and gave the nearly invisible shield a _thwap_ with his finger, causing a ripple of static to shockwave around the sphere. "Looks like something that would be in an art installation."

"You're not far off. Yet apparently there are people ready to kill for this," Liara mused. "And I don't think that someone would hire a PMC just to find and add another piece to their sculpture collection. This has a function and we need to find out what it is."

"I think I have an idea," Roahn said as she straightened out and gestured to the sphere. "No… I _know_ what this is." Her prosthetic hand began to shake as her fingers curled, as though she was imagining cupping the object and hefting it in her hand in a theatrical manner, siphoning the power that flowed from it into herself.

The quarian turned, eyes grave. She looked like she had just weathered a marathon through a draining storm. "This is one of the artifacts that Aleph has been searching for. Like the ones he stole on Ratinena, Earth, and Luna. This is what I've caught him doing twice in a row now. He's been scouring the galaxy, looking for these for… for whatever plot he has in mind."

Garrus flicked his eyes back and forth between Roahn and the obelisk. "You're absolutely sure? How can you tell?"

"I _saw_ what he was pulling from one of those vaults. There's also the fact that he's been present for most of these recorded thefts, in which case we have to assume that similar artifacts were stolen. And we just made it out from an engagement with Dark Horizon—you said it yourself, Garrus, that's the Aeronaut's PMC! Aleph's guard! The fact that they were here so blatantly engaging the Defenders is proof that this, right here, is one of the objects that he's seeking. He _needs_ this and we took it before he could get his hands on it!"

"I guess he's going to be unhappy when he learns that he lost it," Liara offered. "Though I can't honestly figure out why he would need so many of these things, if he really has a keen interest in making such a collection." She pulled up a series of microscope and penetrating imaging scans that she had taken prior to Roahn's arrival. A multicolored spectrum of jagged and alien landscapes draped across the room, looking like random pieces of topographical maps of distant worlds and moons. "Aside from the radiation, there's nothing within this object that would hint at it being part of some greater whole. It's not a piece of nuclear fuel, it isn't the primer to an antimatter weapon. It has no visible purpose."

"Yet Aleph wants it," Roahn said. "Isn't that enough for us to care?"

Just then, a soft ping on a nearby console drew Korridon's attention over to it. He copied the screen onto a tablet and perused the contents of the scan that he had just ran. In the span of a few seconds, his face began to pale, his eyes slightly bulged, and his fingers rapidly tapped at keys as he performed secondary calculations, the speed and noise of which was acting as a distraction to everyone in the room.

"Um…" he uttered through a hoarse throat, "…the results of the elemental analysis on the artifact just came through."

"I'm guessing the news isn't great," Garrus muttered as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Korridon's face clearly stated that he was not sure how to frame his next set of words. "It's… it's odd."

"Why?" Roahn raised an eyebrow. "What did you find?"

The young turian took a badly needed swallow. "Okay. So, what our instruments are saying is that the elements that make up that sphere are mostly very dense metals. But it's a strangely limited mix. The analysis shows that an amalgamation of four elements have been all perfectly combined into this singular structure."

"Four elements? So what?" Garrus shrugged. "Is there something strange about that?"

"The elements are all perfectly combined as if they've found an equilibrium. Within this artifact's structure, there does not seem to be an uneven mix of the denoted elements down to the atomic level. That doesn't happen in nature which means this was engineered, like you had previously suggested. Someone _built_ this artifact from the ground up. Molecule by molecule. There was a deliberate attempt to make every atom of this thing arranged in a desired sequence."

Garrus looked like he was about to question Korridon's conclusions again, but Roahn stepped in before that could happen. "What were the elements that you found, Korridon?"

Korridon's jaw opened and closed, briefly exposing his rows of barbed teeth. "It was a 54% proportion of iridium, 26% osmium, 19% mercury, and less than 1% carbon."

"Three of them very dense metals, like you said," Liara murmured.

No one else made a reaction to this news, which amplified Korridon's confusion as he swept his gaze from face to face, finding only blank looks in return.

"What…" he stammered, "…none of you knows what this means?"

Again, no one spoke. Awkward mumblings and half-hearted shrugs were made but no words were uttered.

Korridon stabbed a finger down onto the tablet he held. "The iridium, osmium, and mercury… there was a time where this exact metallic composition, in various forms, was present within our galaxy in large quantities. The percentages in this artifact are the same, the structure is the same, _everything_ is the same!"

"Korridon," Roahn waved a hand to calm the turian down. "What are you saying?"

Whirling a finger to send the obelisk under his accusatory point, the turian was wide-eyed as he held the artifact in his field of vision. "That… thing is made out of the same material as a _Reaper_, Roahn. Those artifacts… they're all Reaper in origin."

Now everyone was looking at the artifact in a new light, their expressions ranging the gamut from befuddled to outright dread. For all of them knew that, locked within that sphere alone was a heart that bled malevolence and spite, that had been forged from a master as dispassionate as the foe hounding them at this moment. The dim echo of a howl opened in Roahn's ears, for even though she had never laid eyes on the sphere's creator, she had seen in her father's eyes the fear that such creatures had filled him with, that had irreparably damaged him in their onslaught. There was a nameless fear that struck at her, a presence that commanded subservience in the wake of imminent destruction.

A new cycle of terror. The feared following the feared.

"Well…" Garrus was the one to break the silence in the cargo hold, "…shit."

* * *

Roahn ran after her father shortly after leaving the Port Cargo room—he had departed swiftly after learning the terrible news of the artifact's origins and had presumably wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Roahn was not having any of that. She had caught sight of him embarking onto the elevator, so she hurriedly clambered up the curving stairs to cut him off as he reached his destination one floor above.

"_What the hell could someone want with Reaper relics?_" she heard Garrus say to Liara down the way she came. "_They're only of interest to historians and crazy cults these days. It's not like anyone can switch them on or be affected by them anymore…_"

Shepard appeared to be lost in his thoughts as he exited the lift and was therefore caught off guard when he raised his head and beheld his daughter standing in front of him. Rightfully so, as his last spatial awareness of her had been on a deck below.

"I need to talk to you," Roahn said, trying to keep the venom from poisoning her tone. Shepard silently stood still in the lift before he gave a solitary nod of acceptance and followed her the short walk over to her room, whereupon the quarian proceeded to lock the door behind her.

Roahn splayed her left hand upon the door, leaning on it for support, before she turned to face her father. His expression was mild, rather flat, but there was something in his gray eye that betrayed a somber regretfulness. A drop of sorrow that would not be wiped away, no matter his efforts.

The quarian bit her lip before she began, trying to figure out what mercurial thoughts really existed within her father's head. "Is there anything you want to say first or am I going to have to do all the talking to start?"

The human just closed his eye and gave a somewhat listless shrug. "Something tells me that you _want_ to speak your mind."

"Yeah, I do," Roahn huffed. "But mostly I want to hear you explain yourself. You _derailed_ my stance earlier today by picking this messy rescue mission over the destination that I wanted. We needed to get to Earth as quickly as possible because we just found out about Aleph's affiliation with the Alliance but you elected to have us make a detour all because of one simple transmission?! What the _hell_ were you thinking, dad?"

Shepard grabbed the lone chair from Roahn's desk and haltingly proceeded to sit upon it, a tightness creasing the edges of his mouth as the effort noticeably pained him. He looked up at her, not defiantly, but with the careful and collected confidence that reflected the assurance of his position. "Do you have an issue with today's results at all? We just prevented Aleph from getting his hands on a Reaper artifact. Don't you think that's significant?"

"That isn't the point," Roahn sighed as she hung her head and brought a hand up to the top of her visor in exasperation. "You didn't take my side when you had promised me—at the beginning of our mission—that you would respect my command and not try to overrule me." She stumbled over her words, producing a noise of irritation. "I… I don't know where I should go here."

"If you recall," Shepard scooted forward in his chair as he raised a finger, "I did not specifically take a side in that encounter you're remembering."

"Yes, you did—"

"_No_, I did not," her father said emphatically. "I never said anything of the sort. I did not take your side or Garrus' back then. I know that the both of you were expecting me to make a suggestion, but contrary to what you may be thinking, I _remembered_ our agreement. And even knowing that, I let Garrus make the choice for himself because he is the captain and he should not need to look to me to confirm every decision he makes."

"He expected you to take his side."

"What he _expected_ from me," Shepard clarified, "was to speak out if I had any bad feelings about the decisions being presented. I had none, so I said nothing. Both choices had their merits and I had no problem with going along with either one."

Roahn's eyes narrowed. "Choosing not to decide is still a choice."

"So I should automatically take your side for everything just because you're my daughter? Is that what you think I'm good for here?"

"No, no," Roahn tried to backtrack. "That's not what I'm—"

"Because not only is that unfair to you, it is unfair to your team. I would just be one extra vote in your favor, granting you more weight for every single choice on this ship. Do you want me to treat you like my child or do you want me to treat you like an adult? I can certainly arrange for one or the other to happen, should you like."

Both father and daughter silently glared at the other. Roahn's eyes behind a glossy barrier. Shepard's singular eye unblinking next to his missing one. The intimation was burning within Roahn's stomach. It was almost as if she took it as an insult. Fiery, she clenched her hands at the same time an electric tickle jolted down her left arm, momentarily flaring out into the shape of her missing limb for a painful second before the sensation faded into oblivion.

Slowly, she raised her prosthesis for emphasis, the whirring of the servos frightfully loud in the small room. "You cannot _fathom_ what Aleph means to me. Do you _see_ what he did?! How he _hurt_ me?! You should be beside yourself with rage from even thinking of him! Aleph is our enemy!"

"Aleph is one man!" Shepard proclaimed as he unexpectedly stood from his chair on rickety legs. "And our responsibility is to the _galaxy_, to save however many lives that are threatened. This is a responsibility that everyone else abdicated, Roahn. We're here because the hands of the Council and every other government has their hands tied, unable to make a difference. What we're doing is going after the threat that has been more prevalent this whole time: the _corporations_. Can Aleph's heists compare against the thousands and thousands of bodies the PMCs have stacked up over the years? Would it make sense to chase him all over the galaxy when there are so many lives under threat from these private militaries? Do you really think he represents a greater threat to everyone now, right at this moment? Think, Roahn. Don't just blurt out an answer because of your personal stake."

"P-P-Personal?" The word felt like a slur on Roahn's tongue. "After what I've seen? After figuring out that Aleph is working with these PMCs? That he's stockpiling Reaper artifacts? How could I _possibly_ remain objective knowing what I—"

A harsh gagging sound creaked from Roahn's throat as she stopped herself just short of containing the last few words in her mouth. Despite the dry nature of the room, her voice seemed to carry in the air tauntingly.

Hands shaking, Roahn descended upon the edge of the bed in a daze, speechless at what she had just admitted. She could not even find the justification to lay the blame on anyone but her for speaking the truth. In good conscience, she knew that what she had said was correct.

But that was where the problem lay.

It was the responsibility of those in positions of command to remain objective and free of personal compromises in order to perform their duties effectively. Failing to do so was a strong indicator for those that were unfit to lead. And Roahn had just effectively admitted that she had this problem unprompted in front of her father. Shamefully, she hung her head as she took several trembling breaths, her perceived inferiority making her feeling atomically small in the presence of this man.

Shepard, however, did not speak right away. He offered no disappointment, no reprimanding comment. Instead, he moved over to sit by Roahn at the edge of the bed. Shuffling himself so that his daughter was slightly leaning against him, he lifted an arm and gently wrapped it around her shoulders, letting her rest her head atop his shoulder while he held her body tightly.

In her father's embrace, a sigh of gratitude and surprise slithered from Roahn's lungs in astonishment, powerful enough to make her eyes water. She moved into him, mouth slightly open, as she felt a slight but constant shudder move throughout Shepard.

_He's scared_, she realized.

"When I was brought back after being spaced," he said as he continued to hold Roahn against him, "there was no one person for me to focus all my anger upon. I could only get lost in my duty, to fight against the Reapers however possible. But you, Roahn… I can't even begin to understand what it is that's tearing you apart. You have been dealt a blow that is far more personal than I've ever faced. In some part, that's why I couldn't say anything in your defense earlier today. I just don't want to lose you to that anger… and if I was responsible for you going down that path, I know that I would never come back from your loss."

Roahn's hand moved to find her father's strong forearm. The shudder that ran through him was more pronounced there. She knew what exactly how he felt—it had been an unfortunate circumstance of his unintentional neglectfulness that had resulted in the death of his wife many years ago, a death that was still eating him alive to this day. The weight of his transgression would haunt him until his remaining days and Roahn knew if there was any more regret to add to his pile, Shepard would be utterly destroyed.

She remembered the day when he had confessed the whole unfortunate truth of Tali's death to her. They had been sitting on a sloping hill with the greenery of Eden Prime sprawling before them. Roahn had watched her the man, dead-eyed, finally succumb to the crushing pressure of admitting his guilt. He had sobbed his eyes out before her, cementing that as the moment where Shepard would forever be just a man to her and not the commander of legend. He carried that pain within him still, for time could not heal all wounds.

Shepard gave Roahn's shoulder a squeeze before continuing. "You may very well be right about Aleph. I can only hope for the inverse, but I _know_ there's a good chance that you're correct. It was just… until today we never had any definitive proof of his intentions. We're _still_ guessing, to be fair. But anyone who's collecting Reaper artifacts is clearly a danger. Someone like that either has no respect for the power those things hold… or they _do_ know, which makes the situation even worse."

"You were frightened by them," Roahn quietly stated. "The Reapers."

"Yes, I was," Shepard gave an imperceptible nod. "The Reapers killed trillions of people in less than the span of a year. They scarred every world as they systematically tried to wipe us out. Until the last moment, they were winning the war. Their victory had been nearly assured ever since they arrived in our galaxy. We were holding on to shreds of hope, trying desperately to reach that light at the end of the tunnel. At times… I didn't even know if we could make it, though I knew that all I could do was try." He looked down at Roahn's attentive eyes behind her visor, very able to visualize her face despite the translucent covering, as a good father should. "I never want you to come to that level of despair. But I also can't cover my eyes to the danger that is waiting for you. These artifacts… the Reapers… nothing good can come of them."

"Is it because of what they represent?" Roahn asked as she slowly brought herself up, her hands now situated upon her thighs. "The power that they once held—indoctrination—or is the sacrilegious idea of being around such evil machines what you fear?"

Shepard's face darkened. He would never be able to forget the slaughter he had faced at the hands of those synthetic monstrosities. The rabid and deep howls they made… the screams of their victims. A dark choir growling and hissing in temptation. They still occupied a place inside his head.

"A bit of both," he admitted. "Being around the remains of those things… to have even the slightest interest in them is enough to bring me disgust. My opinion is that we should have thrown every single piece of Reaper scrap that we found into a black hole, where we threw their corpses years ago."

"We would have been better off had that been the case."

"It's just that… _indoctrination_," Shepard's brow furrowed furiously as he leaned forward. "That was the one thing that nearly doomed us all. It was perhaps the Reapers' most powerful weapon. The ability to subtly influence the will of others from sheer proximity would be unimaginable in anyone's hands."

Roahn thought for a moment. "But… when you destroyed the Reapers, you permanently removed their ability to indoctrinate along with them. Wasn't that what our scientists found out? That the remains they recovered showed no trace of indoctrination signals or components being active? That weapon is _lost_ now, dad. Indoctrination is no longer possible."

"Then why collect the artifacts at all? What purpose could they possibly serve?"

"I was hoping to have had that question answered by now," Roahn said, though with the wistful trace of a smile.

Shepard, though he could not physically see his daughter's expression, mimicked her by also making a rather dry grin. "We'll know more once we get to Earth. Someone has to have some answers back there."

"Yes…" Roahn distantly nodded as she slowly got back to her feet. "Earth." She placed her hands on her hips and gave a murmuring sigh before pacing a tight corridor between the door and her bed. She turned to look at Shepard. "Dad, about what I said earlier…"

The human simply closed his eye, shook his head, and met Roahn's eye as he too got up from the bed. "It'll stay between us. I know what you were trying to say."

Roahn brought herself in for a hug and her eyelids drooped shut as her father's arms took her in a bear-like embrace. She settled herself into his frame and peeked through half-closed eyelids, her world dripping in muted blurs. Something unfurled within her and the next intake of breath felt like something loosened that had previously been tightened to the point where her circulation had been cut off.

Somewhere, a part of her mind relaxed.

"Thank you."

* * *

**A/N: As you can probably guess, the whole situation with Aleph is just getting more and more complicated. If you thought this was going to end up as a simple mission for Roahn, safe to say that you're out of luck. The plot continues to thicken and I have plenty more wrenches to throw into the system... so don't get too complacent.**

**Playlist:**

**I'll Take That/Between the Suns (Dogfight Pt. I)**  
**"STALKER Theme"**  
**Borislov Slavov**  
**Crysis 3 (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Waterfall Canyon/Sagan Flies (Dogfight Pt. II)**  
**"Cargo High"**  
**Joel Corelitz**  
**Death Stranding (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Artifact Theme/Reaper Remnant**  
**"The Apple"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Assassin's Creed (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	19. Chapter 19: Coming Together and Apart

"_Disclaimer: The hacking mechanics you see in Mass Effect 2 are simplified visualizations of a brute-force attack. Had the developers done more research, they might have been able to implement more accurate simplifications of this activity, as well as modify the existing mini-games to reflect more varied techniques, such as password cracking, packet analyzers, phishing, keystroke logging, rootkits, Trojans, or even social engineering. For a list of games that do acknowledge the multiple facets of hacking, please visit our website at: [URL REDACTED::ILLEGAL ASSOCIATION]"_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_Citadel__  
Presidium – Chimera HQ_

"Mr. Christenson will see you now, Representative."

With the sort of smile that represented chivalry out of an occupational requirement rather than genuine feeling, the receptionist led Cirae Idetha past the outer doors that bordered the office of Chimera's CEO once the human woman's console had quietly chimed to indicate the executive's readiness.

_About damn time_, Cirae thought to herself, as she had been waiting in one of the stiff velour chairs for almost half an hour. She had been early to the meeting, admittedly, but even so she had expected an executive of a billion credit company to possess even a modicum of timeliness. They passed by a thicket of fake bushes that flanked the tall walnut doors that swung on a hinge—Chimera's logo was burned onto the paneling that served to remind Cirae of where she currently was.

Cirae's eyes flicked to the plastic smile etched upon the receptionist's face and walked past her with nary a grunt. She lifted a blue-scaled hand and pushed the door open with an indelicate shove, her breath having resided in her throat the entire time she had entered the building. For good reason, too. Cirae had never been in the office of a PMC before and she had thought that she would never take such a chance in her lifetime. Not only that, but Chimera was perhaps the most notorious out of all the PMCs after the mess they had made on Earth many years back. They were a human-centric company, with no love for asari certainly, so it certainly registered upon her that being here was akin to walking into a thresher maw nest.

Considering the fact that the people in this building represented the worst of what the galaxy had to offer—mercenaries and opportunists reveling in the taking of lives and the ruination of order all to maintain a profit—Cirae probably would rather take the thresher nest.

Cirae's heels first met a stone floor made of cracked granite the color of dark chocolate. She tried not to react as she took in the quiet affluence of the room. Directly in front of her, four couches of warm brown leather flanked a miniature coffee table the color of soot. A couple of books on business and world leaders adorned the table next to an empty tumbler and two upside-down glasses. The wall to her right was comprised entirely of wood panels—perhaps the most expensive part of the room as wood was not cheap in this day and age. The desk at the back of the room was made up of the same wood and granite that comprised the place's dimensions. Christenson apparently had gotten an interior decorator to help with the room. The wall right behind the CEO's desk was also wrapped with plush leather and draped by two stone columns. To Cirae's left was a windowed balcony that gave Christenson an unobstructed view of the Presidium. _No surprise there_, she thought. CEOs loved to have a room with a view.

Weirdly, at first glance there appeared to be nothing that stood out to Cirae that would otherwise indicate this was the office of a CEO of a PMC. At the very least, she had been expecting a few trophy heads adorning the wall. A gun case, most definitely. And… perhaps even a taxidermy-d creature somewhere in the corner.

Christenson was a reedy man of seventy, his cheeks already lined with the canyons that came with age despite the fact that gene therapy should have held off such pronounced aging. His thin hair was combed immaculately, parted at the side. He wore a suit that Cirae estimated cost more than her own annual salary. He was not a particularly intimidating looking man with a thin build, a weak chin, and jumpy eyes. _Way too jumpy_, Cirae noticed but she gave no reaction to that even though she was harboring her reservations.

"Representative Idetha," Christenson greeted as he stood from his desk to shake the asari's hand. "Lars Christenson. I hope I wasn't keeping you too long. I was on a personal call with my son—he was asking me for a recommendation for a breeder to help with his Arabian over in Barcelona. Which means I'll have to apologize in advance, for it looks like we'll have to cut this meeting short as I have a business matter to attend to in the next half hour. You'll understand completely, I hope?"

Cirae dearly wished that she could utter some snarky quip right about now. Christenson had the air of someone who relished rattling off a series of glitzy-sounding words that eloquently communicated his superior financial position to anyone within earshot. It was outrageous at how well PMCs paid their executives and the man's utterly dismissive attitude already made Cirae hate him outright, not that she was ever planning to like him.

"That's quite all right," she managed to pull an empathetic face in time. "I don't foresee this tacking too much of your time, Mr. Christenson. As I said in my message, I'm only here as a formality."

"Lars, please," Christenson gave a graceful wave of his arm as he sat back down on his chair while Cirae took the one on the opposite side of the magnificently constructed desk. "Do you know anything about horses, Representative?"

Cirae's brow furrowed. "Horses?"

"Yes. Horses. I mentioned that my son is in the process of training his Arabian, which is a type of horse. Very loyal and built for endurance. Beautiful creature. Cost a fortune these days, sadly. They all do, but the Arabians are prized higher than most."

"I'm afraid I don't know much about horse breeding or racing," Cirae admitted, hating to have to be so forthcoming right off the bat. "It's not exactly a sport that would cross into my circle, Mr. Christenson."

"Representative, I just said that you could call me Lars."

The asari just gave a cool smile, her eyelids squinting ever so slightly. "_Mr. Christenson_, do you mind if I record what we say?" She lifted her arm, omni-tool activated upon it, for emphasis.

Christenson lifted a hand an inch off his desk, having given up on trying to correct the asari. "That depends," the man said as he reached into his desk and withdrew a bottle and poured himself a glass of caramel-colored liquid. "You're planning on sticking to the topics as you outlined in your meeting request?"

"It would be poor form of me if I were to deviate."

Christenson found that acceptable and lifted the bottle to Cirae, a silent offer. The asari respectfully shook her head, not at all interested in having a drink this early in the morning. As Christenson put the bottle away, Cirae took the time to scan the contents of the man's desk. More books, a couple abstract paperweights, and a coaster for drinking glasses. A rather threadbare presentation, all neat and tidy. Cirae had heard a story from some of her colleagues that one of Chimera's early CEOs had adorned his desk with a metallic reproduction of his own genitals in a misguided display of manliness. While such a trinket would have been vulgar and inappropriate anywhere, no matter how one looked at it, Cirae was almost disappointed she did not see anything of the sort under Christenson's tenancy as it would have made for a great story, albeit in retrospect.

"I have to admit that I was curious when I received your message," Christenson said as he swirled the contents of his glass absentmindedly. "After all, it's not every day that someone from the Council wishes to request a meeting with me. At least, not in the expedited fashion you've demonstrated."

Cirae was prepared for this and offered a calm look in riposte. "I can understand your confusion to that. The best answer that I can give you is that the shifting priorities of the legislature—in my case, the General Assembly—sort of tends to be a bit haphazard with its overall focus when viewed from outside. Hundreds of people, hundreds of opinions. Nothing is ever decided upon unanimously. That would take a miracle far beyond any deities making themselves known to us." She paused as Christenson laughed. "The only way anyone in my position can get anything done is to find the time to sit in a committee that is dedicated to a specific subject, which does require of its members to get a little… proactive, shall we say. Hence, why I'm here now."

"I see," Christenson answered, though Cirae knew he did not really see because she had just spun an elaborate non-answer that essentially told the man nothing about her.

Politics had provided her with the chance to develop her circular discussion abilities, most certainly.

"To that end," Cirae continued, "I'm here because I wanted to open a dialogue with you, Mr. Christenson. Chimera has been a dutiful supplier for the Council for the last ten solar years and your relationship with us would undoubtedly serve as a template for how us—the Council, I mean—can strengthen the chain of information and finances between us. A sterling example for which we can figure out where our data bottlenecks in our other partners lie."

Christenson set his glass down in interest. "So what you're saying is that you want to use this as an information-gathering session so you can discern the partnership that ties Chimera to you as a way to… improve other providers in your network?"

"Yes, that about sums it up."

"Hmm," Christenson mused, flattered at the insinuation. "Which committee did you say you were part of, again?"

"Oh, the committee hasn't been formed yet," Cirae answered effortlessly, having practiced her response over and over again in her head for the past hour. "In order for a new committee to gain approval, we need to produce valid research and initial conclusions that have been performed on our own expense. You're one of the corporations we decided to go to first, as we are confident that your disclosures will provide us with enough material to make this committee official."

There was some truth to what Cirae had just said. While many of the large committees in the General Assembly were vital to the legislative process and heavily scrutinized by the public, there were dozens of smaller committees that kept low profiles or were otherwise hidden off the rolls either due to the tiny number of members in their ranks, the secretive nature of their research, or the fact that they had no findings to release at the current point in time. In short, Cirae's nonexistent committee was all a fiction in her head but could still theoretically operate in this gray area where many other committees technically resided.

"And when you do finally wish to make your mandate public," Christenson leaned forward, "what will your committee be about?"

"Oversight of ethical responsibilities within Council-affiliated partners," Cirae offered immediately, the lie still coming easily. By the look on the human's face he had not discovered that Cirae's answer was technically an insult. His loss. "We're still trying to find a suitable acronym."

Christenson swallowed the fib hook, line, and sinker. "You know that this corporation has already cooperated extensively with Council representatives such as yourself. Why not go to them first to obtain the information you're looking for?"

"You'll probably have to think of the Council as a rather siloed organization. Every individual group and committee acts like their own kingdom and guards their information quite jealously. I suppose an apt comparison is for me to ask if you would be comfortable heading over to that building across the way," Cirae pointed a finger out the window, "to your competitors at Zero Sum and ask them to pass over copies of _their_ financials."

The executive gave a hearty laugh at that. "You bring up a good point, Representative Idetha. Can't say that I would find your task enviable."

"It's not something that benefits from procrastination, unfortunately."

"Indeed. Well, you have fifteen minutes, Representative. You may go ahead with your questions."

"I don't have very many," Cirae booted up a small screen on her omni-tool, even though she already had her questions memorized—this was all to keep up appearances to Christenson to make it seem like she was shaky on this subject and had not come here with an ulterior motive… which _was_ the case. "I will say, of course, that you might have heard some of these questions before. If I happen to ask you something that might have overlapped with an answer you've given before, I apologize but these questions are all merely to perform a proper accounting."

Christenson gave a helpful nod. "I'm fine with that."

Cirae then pretended to read from her omni-tool, pursing her lips for effect, before she dove right in. "When the Council formally announced their partnership with Chimera a little more than ten years ago, I think I'm correct in recalling that this did not come without controversy. While Chimera was only enlisted to provide provisional and logistical support before branching out as a supplier of military equipment, most people only knew about Chimera from that high-profile event down on Earth seventeen years ago when several of its contractors were involved in a very dangerous and expensive chase with Commander Shepard in the streets of Berlin that ended shockingly with Shepard being arrested, Chimera's CEO at the time being murdered in a hospital bed, and a prominent human senator momentarily disappearing before turning up in his home, also dead from a heart attack. To that end, what changes can you say that Chimera has made in order to distance itself from that event?"

"I had a feeling the Berlin Pursuit would be one of the items on your list," Christenson mused after a few seconds.

"That's something that people ask about often?"

"More often than you'd imagine," the human considered. "But I have no trouble recounting the details to you. You see, that particular CEO of Chimera, the one who was in my position during those regretful events, was an arrogant young man by the name of Erich Koenig. Apart from being constantly in legal hot water as an adult, he was also a terrible businessman. He nearly brought Chimera to the brink of bankruptcy several times before a corrupt senator—Raynor Larsen, if I'm remembering his name correctly—decided to step in and use the company for his own plans."

Cirae looked up from her tool. "Why do you think a senator would ever need the services of a private military, Mr. Christenson?"

The man spread his hands, helpless to answer the asari's question. "I can only surmise his intent, Representative."

"Then I'll take a conjecture in the absence of a certainty," she shrugged with a crafty glint in her eyes.

The glass with the alcohol in it found itself in Christenson's hand once again. "If you've done your homework, you should already be aware that Senator Larsen was particularly hell-bent on obtaining enough influence in his political circles to rise to the next rung from his station. He had no qualms on gathering more power and would run roughshod over anyone just to get even the slightest edge. His attempts to besmirch Commander Shepard—of all people—should prove just how crazed this man was in the long run."

Cirae did indeed recall her own opinions of the contentious senator being not at all flattering during the events of the Berlin Pursuit. She had watched the newsfeeds endlessly the day the story broke. Seeing Commander Shepard and his crew tear down the streets of an old Earth city with wave after wave of military ordinance coming after them was surreal to behold. She had clasped a hand to her mouth as she watched Shepard and his crew flip Makos, pluck Mantis gunships from the sky, and down Hammerheads as thought their armoring was made of foil. Not to mention, several camera drones had captured glimpses of a frightful personal battle between Shepard and what looked like a metallic combat droid on the steps of the Earth Senate, clashing between massive stone pillars before their fight spilled inside, beyond the gaze of the cameras.

Seeing as all that had been the results of Larsen's ambition, crazed was definitely the right word to describe the man.

"And the fact that Koenig was shot dead in a hospital bed elsewhere in the city shortly afterward?" Cirae pressed, arching her brow. "Does that sound like Larsen's brand of foul play to you?"

Christenson nodded. "It was well documented that Larsen and Koenig did not particularly care for each other. I can only guess again but I do seem to recall that the theory the investigators were floating was that Larsen organized the hit on Koenig in an attempt to prematurely silence him in case he was arrested after the chaos in Berlin."

"Do you find it remarkable that Chimera managed to stay in business after that whole incident?"

"Yes, actually," Christenson answered honestly. "The PR that directly followed has still not been shaken off, not to mention we're still frequently made the butt of the jokes among our competitors. But to answer your initial question, it was not hard to make the changes to Chimera's executive structure in order to put it back in everyone's good graces. Mere weeks after the events in Berlin, the company's underwriters brokered several deals with private investors that managed to keep Chimera from becoming insolvent. Not a particularly difficult prospect to present, as Chimera's valuation had plummeted the day after the crisis in Berlin. Yet those new investments allowed Chimera to keep operating as a private company but it also meant that we had a new board of directors to guide the company's direction for the time being. And the directors did a remarkable job—they fired anyone who was close to the previous executive team and brought on illustrious men and women that were responsible for steering the ship in that right direction, pretty much helping to keep Chimera out of any more headlines of Berlin's ilk."

"So you're saying that completely switching up the leadership allowed Chimera to operate more ethically?"

"I can't see any other reason why Chimera managed to survive. Our new directors had successfully enacted a culture shift, which in turn attracted more ethically-minded employees that—in turn—contributed to changing Chimera's image. Mark my words, had Chimera not received such a substantial investment with the intent on turning the company into a success story, you would not see any of our competitors try to replicate our company model at all."

Cirae honestly doubted that the other PMCs were quite keen on following the supposed template Chimera had set for everyone in its market. She was not stupid—a business that focused on being ethically-conscious typically spent quite a lot more in terms of its annual expenses. It was far cheaper to be ignorant of the health and well-being of a company's employees. Companies like Chimera, ones that thrived on churning out contractor after contractor and that looked at people like data points, probably did not have it in their best interests to give their employees more legal power. No, the whole changes that Christenson was alluding to was that the PMCs were now making efforts to downplay their inherent corruption, or at least display it not as blatantly. But he was never going to spell that out loud to her, of course.

There was also one little tidbit that Christenson had mentioned that gave Cirae pause for a moment. He had said almost idly that Chimera continued to operate as a "private" company to this day as a result of the generous investments the corporation had received. That could be a complication in the future, she glumly noted. Private corporations could keep their entire financial records sealed to the public and any governmental body. Unlike a publicly traded company, these corporations had no obligation to disclose their financial performance to any individual or incorporated entity unless they were under audit, and one needed to jump through a massive amount of hoops to even enact an audit on a corporation. If Cirae was going to discover any proof that Chimera was illegal funneling payments to fellow representatives in the government, it would not be from a juridical acquisition of Chimera's economic records. That way—the easiest way—looked to be completely barred to her.

_You've still got time_, Cirae had to reassure herself. _He's not tight-lipped, this one. Miranda said that he puts on a focused front, but that he's really an idiot underneath. Let's see if I can prove it._

"I would probably guess that Chimera's income had a bit of a shaky start relying solely on investments. A company that size, contributions can only go so far."

The human shrugged. "Many of our investors knew going in that their contribution was going to pay off in the long term only. We were very up front about this pattern of growth with them and they rewarded our frankness with their trust. I would say that the initial cash boost helped Chimera get on its feet long enough so that we could enact a deal with the Council. We were undervalued and they were looking to horizontally integrate."

_What, and the Council could not handle its own military solely by itself?_ Cirae thought sourly.

This conversation was only making her more and more disappointed with her peers for letting this deal with Chimera go through. They should have _known_ about this PMC's dodgy history and they certainly did not need any help managing their own military, so why the hell did this deal even materialize in the first place?

"So I'm assuming that this newfound culture shift combined with a more pragmatic leadership led the way for Chimera securing a foothold as a support provider to the Council?" Cirae crossed her legs as she typed out a few notes on her omni-tool without looking at her keypad, her face completely level. "Or were there any other factors that led to this partnership?"

Christenson glanced upward at the ceiling in thought. "Not to my knowledge. The deal with the Council was finalized before I was elected as CEO, to be fair. From the documents I was given, the Council was impressed with Chimera's dedication to shaking up the areas that needed attention and, after a series of meetings that lasted for nearly an entire year, we were awarded with an exclusive contract to do business with the Council in ten year increments."

Cirae was about to proceed onwards to her next question, when something the human had said momentarily stalled her train of thought.

"…_awarded with an exclusive contract…"_

"…_exclusive contract…"_

"…_exclusive…"_

Tangled images symbolizing her racing mind flared into her head all at once in a kaleidoscopic burst of muted visual noise. Cirae had to struggle to keep her expression from wandering too far from her composed stature, but it was very hard to do so now that she had finally managed to get her bearings within her mental plane.

Wetting her lips, she took a slow inhale through her nostrils before she spoke. "I had no idea you solely relied on the Council as your only customer. Companies in your industry tend to market themselves to a wide variety of demographics."

"It isn't an uncommon arrangement. Most private military corporations tend to seek out deals with the Council or other governments. It provides them with a steady cash flow and a guaranteed line of business for years and years."

"And… is the maximum contract allocation limit of 750 million credits enough to maintain Chimera's exclusivity to the Council?"

"The exclusivity applies to certain business sectors, representative, or even certain products or services that we might offer. Being exclusive is just a buzzword, it just means that they get the first pick and the quickest response time from our services. We might be outsourced to a variety of customers, but in this case, the Council is our largest and most important partner."

Cirae nearly leapt up from her seat and flipped the table over in a rage.

* * *

If Christenson had an IR sensor lying around, looking through it he would have noticed that Cirae's head would have been lit up bright volcano-red, close to erupting. It took everything the asari had to hold in her violent outbursts, for she was so dumbstruck that decorum was in a panic trying to hold itself to her presence.

Now she understood why Miranda had recommended that she visit a PMC before making any of her planned moves. What Christenson had said to her would normally be considered a confession in any court of law, but his overall tone was relaying it as a subtle boast. He was _proud_ of his company, despite its dastardly profession, and such pride was embedded in every word he uttered even when he was _lying to Cirae's face._

A junior politician she may be, but Cirae knew enough about finance laws to recognize egregious transgressions when they chanced upon her. It was unequivocally true that the Council could only dole out a certain annual stipend as part of awarding contracts to suppliers. 750 million credits was the most the Council could spend on the companies it partnered with, legally speaking. This was the case in every government as maintaining contribution limits helped tamper down on contract abuse by way of nepotism or corruption. For a company like Chimera, the maximum limit of 750 million credits a year would in no way be enough to support their entire scope of operations. This would not include the billions of credits worth of equipment they were ostensibly selling to the Council, but even so they would be operating at a severe loss. There were manufacturing, logistics, personnel, and upkeep expenses to consider when running a business as a defense contractor. Running a PMC meant that one had to overcome a high barrier of entry in order to be successful.

Which meant that, considering everything Christenson had told her, Chimera's partnership with the Council should in no way be remotely profitable enough for them to maintain an exclusive contract.

But Chimera was getting the bulk of its money from the Council.

So… how was Chimera legally acquiring enough in funds to support itself outside of the 750 million credits it received each year that did not include business earnings?

Cirae felt that she already had the answer in her head before she could give it serious consideration. It was so simple that she was almost aggrieved at having figured it out in an instant.

Nothing about it was legal at all. Though she had no definitive proof, the narrative had been spelled out so clearly for Cirae that she could recount its most likely trajectory right off the bat. The Council was indeed fronting the majority of the cash flow, but Chimera was getting more funds than what was legally allowed. There was no other alternative but to surmise that an improperly monitored account within the Council was the source of these massive payouts.

And thus, the truth came ever clearer.

The Council had a _slush fund_ that it was using to pay private military corporations.

Everything was starting to click for Cirae. All this time she had been railing against the PMCs during her tenure in the Council, hoping to discover the entity that was responsible for providing financial support to them, except that the entity in question _was_ the Council. For some unknown reason, they were paying the PMCs under the table, potentially an effort to keep them in line, while turning a blind eye to their other, more questionable, customers. Whether there was one entity above it all pulling the strings was irrelevant. The Council was the next link in the chain that was doling out the money.

That was why there was no oversight, no punishments to be delivered. The PMCs had the protection of whatever government was employing their services, ensuring that no one on either side would take the fall for whatever mishaps might occur from the corporations' misdeeds.

The Council paid the PMCs. The PMCs then used that money to pay off the representatives back in the Council. It was a constant loop that demanded absolute loyalty all for the promises of extra profits. A horrible cycle that churned around cash as outside forces fed the starving war machine.

Someone had started this corrupt epoch though, and Cirae knew it could not have come from the Council. The government was still struggling to pay off the damages from the war, no way could they have found the cash to keep this thing going. Her initial theory that she had Miranda still held water—an unaffiliated entity throwing tinder to the fire, impassively watching the entire foundation burn to the ground. But Cirae was now diving back into conspiracy territory with this line of thought. Where was the proof to cement her thinking?

For that matter, where had common sense gone to in this galaxy? Everyone was back to making the same old mistakes.

It was like everyone was keen to forget everything the war had ever taught them.

* * *

Returning to her senses just in time to stop herself from destroying Christenson's office, Cirae fluttered in a breath that filled her lungs with stuffy air and a rather medicinal tang embedded itself into her tongue. Her eyes refocused to find Christenson having stood from his chair, whistling a tune as he was in the process of putting his jacket on. Momentarily confused, Cirae remembered that she was out of time with her interview and similarly stood, deactivating her omni-tool as she tried very hard to keep her fingers from shaking.

"I regret that we did not have more time to converse," Christenson ambled forward and stuck out his hand for Cirae to shake. "These war room meetings that I have every week can't really be pushed around—we're connecting calls from our execs in different sectors of the galaxy simultaneously. Not an easy thing to do, even with the proper tech."

Cirae distantly nodded, her handshake limp against the human's bony hand. The executive was prattling on, enjoying hearing himself talk instead of trying to gauge the asari's mood at the moment.

"Now," he was saying, "if you have any further questions for me, you can relay them to my secretary and she'll forward them over to me. I'll try to answer as many as I can if I have the time. Alternatively, I would also be open to having more discussions like this one. Do you think you'll be coming back sometime in the future?"

"It's hard to say at this point," Cirae said, after ensuring that no tremble entered her voice. "After I… meet with some of the other corporations, I might come up with a few more questions that I might not have thought to ask you. For something like this, being as thorough as possible is paramount to the success of this committee."

"Of course, of course," Christenson said as he walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Cirae as they headed towards the tall doors with the large metal handholds that marked the exit to the office. A few paces away from them, the human gave a quarter turn of his body and held up a hand that partially blocked the asari's path. "Now, I have to wonder, Representative," he mused out loud, momentarily raising Cirae's pulse, "the sort of information that you're gathering… how clandestine are you planning to classify it within your legislative branch? I mean, in our line of work, confidentiality is part of the name of the game here."

The asari gave a nod of assurance as she managed a tight smile. "I would advise you to rest easy, Mr. Christenson. The data that we collect will not be freely disseminated and will be heavily modified and redacted to achieve any sort of viewing status. Anything you say to me will be privy to only the committees the data pertains to, and one has to be proven to be of a furtive sort in order to be honored with that kind of duty."

The human was pleased with that answer and lowered his hand to his side so the two of them could continue out the doors and towards the lifts. "I'm glad you said that, Representative. To be frank, the work we do naturally comes with a boatload of obstacles that requires some precise traversal, be it legal or financial. Every year we get briefings from the Council that advises us of the penalties if we let any information slip to the public. Legal action, removal of funding, and prison time are always the most common punishments that are dangled above our head at any point." He gave a nervous laugh. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Council sent one of their Spectres to right the ship should a leak be sprung. But seeing as we've come this far without incident, I'm quite optimistic for the future."

For the umpteenth time today, Cirae had to hold back a snort. _Without incident_. As if Christenson had already forgotten about the crimes Chimera had on its rap sheet—did all of the killings and the rapes against the innocent civilians, not to mention the violence against the most celebrated individual in all of creation, simply not register in this man's head? The lack of self-introspection was so strong it was almost comical to Cirae. Had she not been occupying a dignified position, she would have thrown up already out of sheer anguish.

She needed to get out of this building. Right now.

* * *

Cirae had to walk several blocks away from the headquarters before the chilling teeth that seemed to nip at the nape of her neck faded away into nothingness. The glow from the Presidium's artificial sun seemed to take on a halogen glow, phony and not at all soothing. It was an effort to move her eyes in her sockets—the fleshy organs seemed to scrape against the inside of her skull if she dared to look away from the ground in her immediate vicinity.

She walked over to a skycar stand and requested a lift to the Citadel docks. One of the automated transports peeled away from the hovering traffic lines a quarter of a mile above her head to float down to the little landing pad that protruded over one of the crystal clear lakes that split this section of the Citadel in two. The asari clambered into the vehicle after the doors had opened wide to allow her access and as soon as she had settled in, the skycar lifted away from the ground to rejoin the chorus of commuters that were being whisked to and fro in their own personal craft.

As the searing splendor of the Presidium was replaced with the unprotected view of Sol creeping around the edge of the Earth, Cirae quickly began a call with one of her contacts in her tool, making sure to activate her private monitoring software before initiating it, like Miranda had taught her.

The call picked up on the second ring. Cirae fed the audio to her embedded earpiece, courtesy of her implants. "_I was wondering when I was going to hear from you next_," a male voice spoke. "_Sometimes I get the feeling that when you want to talk to me, your only intention is to use me_."

Cirae flashed a grin at the man's teasing voice. "Well, that's unfortunate, Avi, because I was actually calling you to see if you _wanted_ to be used for a little bit. I've come across something that I think you would like to learn more about."

Avi Ben-Zvi and Cirae had previously been introduced to each other shortly after Cirae had won her election as a representative to the Assembly. Avi was a reporter for the Times as well as a renowned biographer. The two had actually met during a junket that was celebrating a reprinting of one of Avi's most famous works: a complete biography of the late Tali'Shepard (nee Zorah). Cirae had been impressed at Avi's candor and he in turn had admired Cirae's strive to maintain a solid moral direction during her tenure.

Since Avi's main job was working a reporter, he would occasionally come to Cirae to use her as an anonymous source for any rumblings behind-the-scenes of the government that she happened to be aware of. She was only too happy to oblige, considering that Avi was quite transparent at his work in promoting a straightforward portrayal between the contrasting goals of the government and the constituents, something that Cirae had been wanting to correct ever since she had arrived on the Citadel. She would also feed him snippets of unrelated information every once in a while for him to assemble background information on as a token of her trust. Said trust was not solely limited to their professional lives—usually when they were corresponding on topics together, the two would inevitably engage in sex in cramped and cheap hotel rooms. The relationship was not based on love, but by a profound mutual respect that just so happened to entail some semblance of physical attraction. It was hard to tell if Avi felt that there was something deeper between them, but he was demure enough to not bring anything up after a night of coitus. Besides, Cirae felt that things were already complicated enough between them. Best not to dwell on the minutia and risk complicating things further.

There was the discrete sound of tapping fingers upon a glass keyboard on the other line as Avi was ostensibly jotting down some notes. "_Consider me a sucker, then. What've you got? How big are we talking?_"

"Not over a call. I'll meet you face-to-face to discuss it. I'm on my way now."

"_Wait, you're coming to New York?_"

"Why not?" Cirae shrugged as she looked out the window to peer at the maze of yellow gridlines that burned brightly upon a corner of the continent like a giant wildfire. "It's not like you're far away or anything."

Avi laughed. "_Force of habit to ask, I suppose. Well, you know where I work. When do you think you'll arrive?_"

"Maybe in a few hours. I need to book my flight first. You're not currently seeing anybody right now, are you?"

"_Now? No, not right now. Why?_"

Galactic signs of neon advertisements washed past the windshield of the skycar like foamy liquid. In her seat, eyes glazed as the megalopolis of the Citadel arms faded against space's black backdrop, the windows of the buildings camouflaged amongst the stars.

"Think we can talk at your apartment this time?"

* * *

_Menhir  
__Roahn's room_

The lonely gaze of the ringed lamp shone a halo upon Roahn's prosthetic limb, detached from her arm as it lay palm-up on her desk. The stump of the quarian's arm remained empty, pressed to her side. Roahn hunched over her prosthesis as she lightly positioned the overhead lamp to give herself a little more illumination, picking up a socket driver so that she could spin it in the fingers of her remaining hand.

The maintenance activity was also instrumental in killing time for Roahn. The Menhir was currently en route to Berlin and by her count there were still a few hours left of travel time before they docked. She was too alert to sleep so she might as well do something productive. She had plenty of time to complete her tasks.

One of the panels in the forearm of the prosthesis had been popped open from Roahn's handiwork, exposing an intricate set of pistons, gears, and toughened polymers and alloys that formed the skeleton of the precise instrument. Light that glinted off from the silver fingers, already scratched after her couple of campaigns, bounced off her blue visor, terminating in a lens flare effect off the edge of her helmet. She hummed a little tune as she worked within the solitude that her room afforded.

There was nothing wrong with the prosthesis that warranted its disassembly. With some of the free time that she had to herself, Roahn had recently gotten the idea if there were certain areas of her arm that she could make any improvements to. The prosthesis was a device and most devices could be upgraded. No harm in checking it out. In the corner of her visor, Roahn had put up a little box that displayed a magnified view from her suit cameras, giving her a more detailed look that would circumvent any difficulties stemming from being suited.

To her surprise, her quick look under the hood provided no indication that the prosthesis had any area that she could enhance. When Sam had initially told her that all the technology that had gone into it had been top-of-the-line, he had not been lying. The intricate metal pieces were mostly made out of titanium, magnesium, and there was even silver and gold used for conducting currents, not to mention there being an excess of carbon fiber in the chassis to make it light. The individual finger motors were positioned optimally to capitalize on weight distribution. The most advanced microprocessors that monitored the position and control of each finger had been installed in the motor assembly. Bebonic sensors and auto grip programs had already been included in firmware packages within the arm's native software. In short, there were no radical changes Roahn could hope to make to this arm in order to have it work any better.

There was a knock at Roahn's door. She was so distracted by her work that she nearly missed it. "Come in," she called hastily after barely positioning her head around to see who had come calling.

The door opened and Skye poked her head inside, her tuft of scarlet hair bobbing in her wake. "Hey," she softly greeted. "I haven't… talked to you in a while. Did you want some company?"

Roahn turned in her chair, hand on her knee to look upon the woman. She weighed Skye's offer in her head, trying to gauge the woman's intent. Determining no malice, the quarian's posture relaxed as she was helpless to recall a moment lying side-by-side with Skye during their training, sharing a private joke as they nestled within each other's heat. It would be a relief to be able to have more of those memories.

"I could use someone to talk to, yes," Roahn said as she gestured for Skye to take a seat on her bed.

The human graciously did not revel in this minor victory and took the offered seat with silence and humility. She leaned over Roahn's shoulder, spotting her friend's detached arm on the desk. "It's just so bizarre to see something like that," she said.

"Why?" Roahn asked mirthfully. "Do _you_ never take the occasion to detach your limbs for a closer look?"

"You make it sound so morbid, Roahn."

"It's my routine now," Roahn said as she now aligned the forearm panel and began to screw it back into place. "I have to find the normality in it somehow."

Skye blew a long breath from her mouth as she flopped onto Roahn's bed, splaying out her arms as she gripped the edges of the mattress. "They gave you a comfier bed than me," she noted out loud, changing the subject. "I guess that's one of the perks of being in command."

With her arm reassembled, Roahn lifted the prosthesis up and attached it back to the port at her arm with thick locking sound. She waggled her fingers to ensure that there was a good connection and gave a nod of confirmation once she had declared herself whole for the most part. "Take it up with logistics, Skye. I'm not the one who goes and furnishes this ship."

"Maybe I just like to gripe without coming to a reasonable solution."

"Sounds more frustrating than fun." Roahn stood from her desk after switching off her lamp, the muted glow from the interior lights casting the two women in blue-tinted shadows. She approached the edge of the bed, a hand on her hip as she looked down onto Skye, who was now lounging on the bed with her hands raised back, between her head and the pillow.

Skye, pretending to rest, cracked an eye open. "You don't need my permission to use _your_ bed, you know." She patted the empty space next to her.

Roahn held her ground, her eyes clearly visible in the low light. She took conservative breaths, remaining silent as this was causing her to undergo some serious déjà vu.

"Come on," Skye urged as she smiled welcomingly. "I won't bite. I won't even say anything if you want."

Perhaps if Roahn was in a more irascible mood, she might have just taken Skye up on that request. Even if she had, that would just be her retaliatory side exacting its will over what appeared to be a genuine effort from the human to make amends. After her telling-off a week ago, Skye had been considerably less obnoxious as well as less aggressive in her interactions with Roahn. There was no question that the woman was sincere in her stance—and she was a crewmember on board her ship so what kind of sense would it make to be openly antagonistic to her still? Yet she knew that the woman's desires could not be changed that easily…

Rolling her eyes, Roahn accepted the invitation without a word. A grinning Skye scooted over to make room for the quarian as she lied down on the bed next to her. Both women took the next couple of moments to settle in, staring silently up at the ceiling as the interior was filled with the sounds of their quiet breathing: Skye's slow inhales mixed with Roahn's synthesized sighs.

With her hands folded over her stomach, Roahn turned her head to find Skye's limpid eyes staring back at her. "I don't want you to stay quiet," she said.

"I'm glad," Skye's expression broadened. "I like talking to you."

"And I liked talking to you too," Roahn admitted, hoping that her usage of the past tense would be a clear indicator to the human. _We had something together, damn it. Why did you screw it up?_ "I'm also… grateful that you're here, Skye. I know I might have looked like I was trying to give the opposite impression for a while, but that's the truth."

"Why do you say that?" Skye asked honestly as she turned on her side, now propping her head up with a hand. "Just relieved overall to see a familiar face?"

Roahn mustered a croak of a laugh. "Something like that. With all the craziness that's been going on in my life, some semblance of familiarity is… appreciated."

"Maybe you just needed some time to warm up. Yeah, you're much less standoffish now than you were at the start."

Glistening ovals of mercury behind blue composite glass glanced downward before meeting Skye's eyes again. "Only for you, Skye. I'd… like to think that I've had a more welcoming mood for the other crewmembers."

Skye smirked. "But it's all right to snap at _me_, though?"

"I didn't say that," Roahn defended but the human was already laughing.

"Teasing, Roahn. Just teasing."

The quarian began to lift herself up from the bed. "I don't want to give people the impression that I'm some obstinate battleax. The personal history we have between us… sometimes it's just too much to discount. It makes it hard to think around you."

"You're not that kind of person," Skye uttered hurriedly, her words stilling Roahn in place and preventing her from leaving. "You're a sensitive and kind quarian to the point where my self-deprecation probably causes you more grief than I intend. You've never liked it when I do that."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're joking."

The human's hand twitched, almost as if Skye wished to touch Roahn, but she kept the impulse in check. "You know I hate to see you so forlorn. You've gone through so much shit already—and admittedly, I probably haven't helped much—but I just want to see you content. I just… there's so much on my mind already. The weight has only grown heavier since I've been around you."

"You always had a soft spot for me."

"No, I need to tell you more. Ever since I set foot on this ship my past mistakes have been screaming at me, reminding me over and over that I made a mistake. In the past month I've relived every one of my regrets from what I did to you and… I've been able to put everything in perspective. I think I've always known, Roahn, and I couldn't find a way to say it to you properly."

_Skye, please_… Roahn miserably thought.

"Roahn, I'm still in love with you," Skye said.

The cavernous vacuum manifested into a groan in Roahn's ears. Her head tilted away from Skye, she gave a slow, tortured blink, her heartbeat making pronounced thumps against her ribcage as she remained frozen in her half-risen state.

"You really do believe that, don't you?" Roahn whispered.

"Of course I believe it, and I know what you must be thinking—"

"Do you truly know? Or are you just telling me what you think I want to hear?"

Skye now looked like someone had just stepped on her dog. "Are you saying you don't feel the same?"

"That isn't the point, Skye," Roahn sighed as she lowered herself back down to lay on her side, mirroring the human's position. Her voice was tinged with sadness, her clouded expression drooped with regret. "We've both been dealing with this in our time, in our own way, nearly five years after it happened. I don't think you know me as well as you say you do when I know for a fact that I still don't have you fully figured. There was a time during boot camp, around the first week that we met, that I was unsure if you were really interested in me—personally—or if you just wanted to sleep with me. It took me a long while to fully figure out your intentions… but when I thought I finally knew you, I felt safe. Comfortable. Like I was flying high and in no danger of falling."

"When… you mean…"

"I fell hard for you, Skye. I really did. I wouldn't have had a problem if you were solely trying to get me into bed but it was the fact that you had your own special way of caring that caught me off guard. It only made things hurt so much more when we separated because I had thought that I could trust you. I fell into a depression after that, Skye, which was something that had never happened to me before."

There was no point in trying to remind Skye of the night that had found itself witness to their somewhat mutual split. Intrinsically, both of them had understood that they had reached a crossroads that could not be traversed easily without an undue leap of faith, one that Roahn had not been comfortable in committing to. The choice had been simple one that Roahn had ultimately decided on—though she knew that she would immediately feel the pain from separating from Skye, choosing to stay had been a path that had seemed tantamount to craziness. Her mind would have been performing backflips in attempting to justify Skye's stance within her own head.

* * *

Roahn had the tendency to revisit the events of that fateful night nearly every day, the events coming to her more and more vividly ever since she was within close proximity to Skye again. Not by choice, for the most part. Her memories had a habit of intruding into her consciousness without being prompted.

The direful day had begun and had proceeded somewhat innocuously. Roahn had been stationed on one of the dorm platforms that orbited around Luna as part of her rotational training, occupying real estate in close proximity to the Alliance's N7 facility down on the cratered moon, actually. Everything had gone according to the schedule: calisthenics, breakfast, zero-g maneuvers, studying, lunch, more calisthenics, being taught navy battle tactics, down time (Roahn usually spent this allotment with Skye), dinner, and finally the end of day activities. It had been Roahn's turn for fire-watch in the dorm corridors, basically acting as a glorified hall monitor. She would not get to sneak into Skye's dorm for some company tonight as she had to procedurally sweep the halls to make sure that no one was sneaking out of bed after-hours. Roahn did take stock of the hypocrisy. It was a dull assignment and barely any excitement happened during this time, but it was basic grunt-work and it was something that everyone had to do sooner or later. Mundane responsibilities were a constant in any military.

As Roahn had turned one of the corners, she had noticed a flicker of shadows coming from one of the selfsame doors that lined either side of the hall. Roahn's heart had skipped a beat. A person sneaking around past curfew. This had been a first for her. Now, protocol in this case was to take any offenders into custody and present them to the commandant of the ship to have a punishment levied. Roahn had the rulebook of her station in her head down pat and had briskly moved into a fast walk to begin the apprehension process when she suddenly stopped in the middle of the hall, recognizing the person in their failed intrusion.

Skye had been pressed to the wall, her expression morose, her hair askew. She was barefoot and her clothes were rumpled. Nothing about her appearance was in line with the prim and proper presentation honed into them as part of the Defender creed. The first thought that had come to Roahn's mind was that Skye looked like she had just gotten laid.

The idea stewed in her head darkly as Skye, already noticing she had been caught, slowly treaded her way towards Roahn, lower lip trembling.

"_I just want to explain myself_," Skye had whispered in the blue darkness of the cold hall. "_That's all I ask from you, Roahn. Please_."

The positioning of Roahn's eyes behind her visor was so icy that it looked like her entire face had been superimposed within a frozen block. However, she did not want to try to justify holding a conversation in the middle of the hall in case someone else kept walking by. She had then motioned with a finger for the two of them to take refuge in the shadow of a doorway, the blinking light from Roahn's vocabulator the only thing that gave the two of them away.

"_So_," Roahn had said, her voice even and freezing. "_Start_."

"_I want you to know that I did this with the best intentions, Roahn. I didn't want you to find out because I didn't want to see you hurt—_"

"_You were sleeping with someone else,_" Roahn's voice had stung with a chilling judgment.

"_Y-Yes, but_—"

Roahn had turned away in disgust, cramming herself into the corner as a bout of nausea immediately slammed against her.

"—_But I had to!"_ Skye had continued to defend herself. "_It was Byers. You know, 'Babbling Byers'? The one who loves to snitch on everyone? He found out about us, Roahn. He knew that we were sleeping together. You know that personal relationships are not allowed in this stage of boot camp. He was going to go to the ruling board to rat us out! I had to stop him… to save us!_"

"_So… you're saying he blackmailed you? He pressured you to sleep with him for his silence?_"

"_Well…_" a hitch had entered into Skye's breathing. "_Not exactly_."

"_What? Did he rape you?_"

"_No! No, no, no. Nothing like that. It was… it was all my idea._"

Now Roahn had slowly turned back, keeping a hand upon the doorframe to steady herself in case her legs gave out.

Skye had made a large gulp. "_I… was the one who suggested that if I sleep with him… he would leave us alone. That's… that's it._"

The quarian had made a noise of disgust, perhaps louder than she had intended—the noise had echoed down the empty corridor in a steady growl. "_You think so little of yourself that you would trade sex so callously?_"

"_I did this to protect us._" Skye had sounded almost proud at having come up with a solution, unaware that she had only been making Roahn angrier with her excuses.

"_You…_" Roahn had been so overwhelmed that she had to shake her head before constructing her reply. "_You didn't even think to tell me what you were planning to do, what you thought was going to happen. We could have prepared for this, you and me. Instead… you just decided that the first idea you had was the way to go. And you don't even seem disgusted with yourself_."

"_We would face repercussions, Roahn! When Byers was going to report us—_"

"_With what proof, Skye?! Who gives a shit if he knew—he certainly would not be able to prove it! We were so careful outside of our rooms and certainly Byers would not have been stupid enough to plant a recording device in either one of them which, in case you forgot, is illegal and a much more serious violation of Defender bylaws! It would have been so easy for us to deny this and ignore a jealous little runt like that man. Instead, you slept with him because you were panicked without even giving a thought as to how I would feel._"

Skye had started to cry at this point, keeping her sobs silent but her tears were glittering in the uneasy shadows. "_Not once did I ever stop thinking of you_."

But Roahn had not wanted to hear it, for she had been so put off from the idea that Skye willingly shared herself with someone else, even if she thought it was for a good cause, that it was causing actual anguish in the quarian. This was not what Roahn had wanted for them.

As the seconds ticked on by, Roahn's silence merely exacerbated Skye's sorrow. The human was now visibly shaking in her sorrow while Roahn maintained a stoic and angrily thoughtful front.

"_Roahn…_" Skye had motioned her fingertips forward. "_I…_"

But the quarian had edged herself out of the way, not even sparing Skye a look. "_You'd better get back to your room before someone else sees,_" she had coldly said.

"_No… no, Roahn, don't—_"

"_I'll come by tomorrow to collect my things that I left behind,_" she had said, staring off into the distance and ignoring Skye's pained face. "_After that, I'm going to put in for a transfer._" She finally turned her head over, no sympathy gracing the light in her eyes. "_Then I never want to see you again._"

It would be too painful to linger after delivering that last sentence and Roahn had not been in an especially compassionate state of mind. Skye had doubled over from this news like she was about to vomit; she was holding her stomach and rocking back and forth while keeping her stifled sobs from being audibly registered. Roahn recalled looking down upon the pathetic woman, almost driven from an impulsive and affectionate urge to place her hand gently upon Skye's head, perhaps as a way to reassure her that she would be all right from this, but the urge quickly faded before Roahn could take action on it. Instead, she turned on a heel and left the human there, not looking back and feeling strangely hollow and weightless as she floated though the endless halls, a part within her torn asunder.

* * *

It was clear that neither Roahn nor Skye relished being able to relive such a painful part of their lives, but while Skye seemed to be wallowing in her own self-pity, Roahn's confidence was unwavering. Even today, the quarian believed that she had made the best choice possible in order to distance herself from Skye's toxic behavior. She had hoped that the human would have been able to focus inwardly and to adjust any areas that needed work since then.

To be fair, looking at her now Roahn could see a definite improvement. A dogged impulse to repair what had been broken resonated within Skye. But would it be enough to make Roahn forgive and forget completely?

Skye seemed to be stunned into a contemplative silence. "Damn… I… I had no idea…" she said lamely.

"I wouldn't have told you in any case. But you still need to find out for yourself if what you feel to me is really love or some twisted urge to mend what you broke in me. Because those two things are not the same."

"I know…" Skye hung her head, contrite. "I know."

Roahn nodded. "I hope you can recognize the difference. If you truly mean what you say, I'll probably see it in you eventually. But I can't take things as fast as you want, Skye. Because… honestly? I'm terrified that I'm going to love you again."

Upon that bed, feet nearly touching, the quarian and the human stared intensely at the other, barely blinking, breathing now locked in sync. There was a tender buzz that seemed to tie them together, a fizzing sensation in their chests, just above their sternums. Roahn tilted her head a tic, watching Skye's hair flow onto the pillow like ribbons while the warm chocolate of the human's eyes melted into a truthful gaze.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" Skye whispered tenderly, her voice low enough to produce intense sensations of intimacy long past in Roahn.

Feeling her breath scrape her lungs, it was an effort for Roahn to even shake her head to the barest millimeter. "Perhaps not."

Skye smiled and finally raised her hand, the tips of her fingers barely brushing the sides of Roahn's helmet. The quarian suppressed the instinct to jerk away but quickly relented into the needful touch. Skye explored the outline of Roahn's helmet respectfully, her fingers never encroaching farther than they should. Roahn kept ramrod still, only her eyes moving, while her breathing filled her body so deep her ribs nearly snapped.

The brown of Skye's eyes met the indeterminate green of Roahn's. "Do you think I will ever get to see your face again?"

Now Roahn lifted a hand and gently pried Skye's away, but not before she gave a reassuring squeeze. "I hope so."

The muscles of Skye's mouth nearly tugged to reveal a wide grin. She had to dip her head to hide the reaction, keeping herself composed (which Roahn found to be quite thoughtful).

"I won't trouble you for the rest of the day," she unexpectedly said as she swung her legs off the bed and gave Roahn's shoulder a pat before she left. "I hope you find what you're looking for down on Earth. Be sure to keep me updated, okay, Ro?"

"Yeah, sure," Roahn muttered in a daze as she too sat up, nearly too late to watch the slender outline of the human glide out the door, leaving her all alone in a fruitless cloud of confusion. "I hope so too," she repeated, unsure as to what she was referring to, exactly.

* * *

_Petra Nebula__  
Hatay Station_

James had to duck as he left the tram car while Jack and Phoria, being half a head shorter, moseyed on by without making any similar accommodations just behind him. The sparse and seedy interior of Hatay Station did not exactly project an inviting aura. The station itself had been carved out of an asteroid in the lone belt of the Petra Nebula, intended as a waystation for miners and travelers. The belt was rich in heavy metals and eezo, making Hatay prime real estate for any mining corporation to base a remote office.

Hatay was riddled with a network of vacuum tubes that acted as the tram lines. There was no atmosphere for skycars to operate. The trams also had no windows as the only view would have been rock or industrial segments whizzing past just a few centimeters from the hull. Instead, large screens gave rundowns on news all over the galaxy mixed with advertisements for taking in entertainment at one of the two casinos on this rock… or to peruse the gallery at the local strip club.

Choices, choices.

From first glance, it was clear that Hatay was nothing like the Citadel. Whereas the Citadel was clean, composed, and had a wide amount of open space, Hatay embodied the opposite of those traits. Space was at a premium on this asteroid which in turn demanded a clustered and cramped grid of industry to intermingle with the population. Clutter naturally led to uncleanliness which in turn fostered a seedy and roughened culture. The décor was nonexistent—concrete floors and walls with very little effort being made to display slight hints of ostentation. A fake plant here would be the determinant factor between a crappy bar and a somewhat respectable restaurant.

Truthfully, Hatay would not have been James' first choice as a place to lay low for the moment, but it was all he had. Hours ago, he had just received an encoded and fragmented message from the human councilor that had gone directly to his omni-tool the moment Phoria's vessel came into range of an extranet beacon. It read, _PTR NEB::HTY STN::AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS_. The directive had passed all the proper clearance checks and then some. The encryption on the message had been so thorough that, to his embarrassment, James had had to ask Phoria for some assistance in decoding it, to which the quarian had obliged with some bemusement.

It did make sense why James would have been ordered here until the councilor would surreptitiously give them a ride back to the Citadel to be put into protective custody. The Petra Nebula was under Alliance control and still in quite friendly territory, so to speak. The last major ruckus that had occurred in this sector, besides the war, had been the pirate attack on Elysium nearly forty years back so there was no reason to think that any major surprises were due to spring up at any moment over here.

Besides, it was a rough galaxy out there. Any shred of sanctuary was to be taken advantage of.

Bright LED lights atop bar entrances beckoned. They glittered and flashed in a seizure-inducing display. All of the watering holes in the sector of the station looked to be packed full, full of bouncers, scantily-clad serving girls, and patrons in all stages of intoxication from mildly buzzed to being completely passed out in their own vomit. What a charming location.

A quick extranet search showed that Hatay's ritziest hotel was a few blocks down the main avenue. James motioned with a finger and the trio headed off in that direction. He hoped that the three of them did not look too conspicuous, though just in case he sandwiched Phoria between him and Jack, hiding the diminutive alien behind his broad frame, because there were still places in the galaxy that held an anti-quarian bias. He did not want to attract any undue attention. On spaceward stations alone in the dark like this, unsavory types like bounty hunters and criminals had a tendency to congregate with the watchful gaze of the law having slipped this place from its domain. Anything could happen here. They just needed to be careful.

The hotel at the end of the street was not part of a well-known chain, unfortunately. The entrance barely looked different from the bleak and bare trappings that adorned the front of the bars on Hatay. A thin and sallow woman with yellowed cheeks manned the front desk. James took charge of arranging the rooms while Jack and Phoria lingered behind. After confirming that the payment went through, James received his room assignment and beckoned his companions over. They took the lift up one level and came to a sad and dusty corridor that seemed to stretch on for half a mile in one continuous direction.

Jack glanced at the room assignment still being projected on James' omni-tool and lifted a hand to palm the first door they came to, but James reached out and clasped her wrist in time, giving a stern shake of his head. Unbothered by his confusion, they walked one more row down before he reached the next door. This one he did push against and it opened with an unhealthy creak.

"You _must_ be joking," Phoria bemoaned upon seeing the state of the room.

Two thin beds lay nearly side by side next to the far wall, the blankets crumpled and unfolded. There was no window. No remote media station, either. The sliding door to the closet was half open, revealing a space barely large enough to hang clothes for a nice Sunday dinner. A glance inside the bathroom did not make matters better—the toilet and the sink were both brushed steel and the shower was a thin cylinder crammed into the corner that could not hope to accommodate a human on the larger side. All had several discolored stains upon them—James did not particularly care to imagine what they consisted of.

"Get over yourself," Jack snapped at the quarian as she rudely brushed past to claim one of the beds for herself. "Believe me, it's better than a prison."

"It _looks_ like a prison!" Phoria gaped.

"Then you can take your chances at another hotel because we're not switching," James said as he closed the door behind him. "Or if you'd like to chance bunking in the ship, probably the first place a bounty hunter would go if we were being tracked…"

He let the statement hang, hoping that Phoria would get the message.

The quarian gave a huff but started to tread around the tiny room to take stock of the place. She flicked random switches, finding that all the lights to the place worked, to her surprise. She twisted the tap to the sink and refiltered water gurgled out.

"I suppose it's too much to ask if they have a sterilization unit installed," she grumbled.

Jack scoffed as she reclined on the bed. "Even if it did, would you really want to chance it?"

"Probably not."

James took a few minutes to take a thorough accounting of the room. He got on his knees and checked every nook and cranny in the area—not hard considering that the place was light on furniture. He even booted up a program that could detect planted audio bugs and gave the place a few sweeps, finding nothing.

Phoria had tentatively taken the other bed, though she sat rather stiffly upon it, as though as she was too proud to touch the sheets which, by the look of things, had not been washed between tenants. She was clearly out of her comfort zone, putting her in a state of agitation. James could not feel too sorry for the woman as it kind of was her fault that all three of them were in this mess, to some degree.

Glancing at his chronometer, James then walked over to Jack, who had her eyes closed, apparently asleep already. He raised his foot and gave her boot a nudge.

"Go away, you bastard," Jack grumbled, not even bothering to open her eyes.

"Get up," James said. "We need to get some provisions."

"So? Go back to the ship and get some."

"Not a good idea. The docks are too far away. Besides, there's a shop just across the street."

"Don't bring me. Bring Phoria. Have her tag along with her."

James looked over just in time to see the quarian straighten where she sat, as if she was surprised to be mentioned by name. Clearly the elder woman was torn at the prospect of having to slum it among people that were of a lower class than she was. Or perhaps she just did not like being referred to in the third person.

He shook his head. "We're not taking her out in public if we can help it. There are too many eyes on the street. You going to help me out here or not?"

Finally, Jack's eyes snapped open and she gave a needed stretch, the tattoos on her wrists scrambling past the sleeves of her jacket. "Fine. Fine. Whatever you say, marine. You're relentless."

"How many times have I been told that before?" James ruefully muttered to himself but gave a small smile as Jack gradually rose from the bed.

Phoria frantically looked back and forth between the two hardened humans in a panic. "Wait… wait, wait, wait. You're not thinking of leaving me here by _myself_, are you?"

Jack looked to James, feeling that the quarian had a point.

James, however, kept up his reticent expression. "There's only one way into this building and we're only going right across the street. We'll have an eye on the hotel entrance the whole time."

"Oh no," Phoria rose, waggling a finger. "_No_, Captain Vega. I'm not going to stay in this _felta rhaana_ room by myself, waiting for some mercenary to gut me! If you leave me alone, you've as good as killed me."

An apathetic Jack shrugged. "If _only_ you had a private army that you could call on in this trying time."

Phoria's eyes diminished into slits, not amused at being mocked.

James continued to remain steadfast. "I think you'd better come to terms that you'd be in the same amount of danger wherever you step foot on this station. In here, out there, it makes no difference. Jack and I have things covered—you'll be well protected for the whole duration. Here—we can even set up a code knock that lets you know it's either one of us before we enter your room. Let's go with… two, one, two. Got it?"

"Two, one, two," Phoria repeated, but she did not sound assuaged.

James knocked on the wall for emphasis, letting the brevity of the anthem ring hollowly in the land where no echo dared to venture.

* * *

"I don't like it," Jack said.

"What's to like?" James answered as he shimmied his way between the crevasses that were the rows of the market. Cans covered in asteroid dust lined the shelves of the establishment, which were badly lit by over-exerting halogen lights that made his skin feel burned.

Jack rolled her eyes behind him as she grabbed a few crumpled packages of freeze-dried fruit. "You know. Phoria. It wasn't a good idea leaving her alone back there."

James glanced out the window of the market, able to easily find the front of the hotel a dozen meters away across the footpath. The woman at the concierge desk was aimlessly watching something on an illegal channel, the traffic pretty much dead at the establishment, which happened to be the exact same view he had looked upon for the last three minutes.

"Concerned for her well-being now?" he asked as he took the foodstuffs that Jack had procured and placed it into the basket where their collection of provisions was growing.

"Just because I don't like her doesn't mean I want her to end up dead," Jack defended.

"Jack, you don't like most people," James pointed out. "To be frank, the line for where you decide whether someone lives or dies is kind of blurred in your head."

Jack looked upward at the ceiling, trying to see if there was any part of James' statement that she could refute. When she finally came up empty-handed, she mustered a one-armed shrug. "I admit, it's a toss-up."

James shook his head as he added more items to the basket. "Yeah. Big fucking toss-up."

"Did I do something wrong?" Jack asked as she watched the marine's face furrow in frustration.

"You're asking the wrong question," James said. "More like, did we do something _right?_ Did we do anything right?"

"James…"

"No, I'm being serious," James turned around in the aisle. Considering its width, this was not an easy endeavor. "Whenever I've had to make a decision where lives in the balance, I end up paying for it in some way. Every time, Jack. Every time… I've always gotten into trouble for it. I've made choices that required better minds than mine. Now look. The both of us are fugitives, hiding a whole solar system away from Earth, and we have the former head of a PMC as our travelling companion. If only I had kept my mouth shut during that party with Phoria and had minded my own business."

James then looked down as he felt Jack's hand clamp down hard on his wrist. His eyes widened slightly in surprise. Lean and bony though she may be, Jack had one hell of a grip—his fingers were turning a slightly darker shade of pink as the blood was squeezed into them. He then took a moment to focus on Jack's face. Her shadowed eyes retained a steely but malleable vulnerability. Her dark lips remained set and expectant. James now noticed how Jack apparently let a few strands of her hair dangle from her bangs, deliberately out of place from her otherwise combed back look. The tattoos at her neck and at the sides of their scalp seemed to lose their edge. There was no anger. Just sadness and disappointment.

"You know, marine," Jack said, "you really are the most morose do-gooder I've ever known. And I've worked with _Shepard_."

James' face darkened. "I just want a sign that I've done something right, Jack. I don't want all this—what we're doing—to be some footnote on a threadbare wiki page. I want to know… is this the right thing?"

The frosty look in Jack's face warmed as she smiled ever so slightly.

"Oh, so you just want me to give you a pep talk?"

"Forget it," James sighed. "Just… forget it. It won't be sincere anyway."

"Hey," Jack urged as James tried to slip out of her grip, but she tightened the hold she had on his wrist hard enough to cause the man to wince. "_Hey_. Just because things are shitty for us doesn't mean that you're not right. You still have someone who believes you."

James arched an eyebrow but he had to break eye contact as Jack finally released his wrist, which caused him to gasp in relief. A white ring now encircled his arm and he rubbed at the afflicted area.

"One person out of a thousand," he said.

"And that one person is the person you know the best out of all of them," she retorted.

"So that's your motivation for sticking with me on this? You also believe that what you're doing is the correct choice?"

"_Please_," Jack chuffed. "Don't make me out to be some noble bitch. You'd think I'd tag along only because I wanted to fight for the right thing? Hold aloft the sword of truth and justice or some crap like that? Shit, marine. You might be denser than I—what are you looking at?"

James had been barely paying attention as he was noticeably staring back towards the entrance to the hotel again, his eyes darting to and fro as he swayed his head in agitation. Jack mimicked his movements as she turned in the direction he was looking and immediately honed in on the distraction in question.

A salarian in full combat armor, complete with helmet, had walked into the lobby and was now talking to the receptionist. The woman did not seem to be fazed as she conversed to the thin alien with the darkened faceplate obscuring their features. The salarian had not seen James or Jack on the other side of the street even though it made a few furtive glances back the way it came to ensure that he had not been followed. A few seconds later, the alien in the yellow and black armor turned and headed further inside the hotel, towards the lifts, the brief glint of a submachine gun pinned to his thigh immediately visible to the two humans in the market.

"And there we go," James urged as he surged forward towards the exit, unceremoniously dropping the basket of food on the ground.

"We're just going to leave it?" Jack asked as James led her outside, referring to the food.

"We'll get it later. Draw your gun."

The two hurriedly darted across the boulevard with none of the pedestrians sparing them a second glance. In a rough-and-tumble place like this, two people with drawn weapons was not enough to set off a panic. James and Jack reached the hotel lobby and, as casually as possible, proceeded at a fast walk towards the elevator at the end of the hall. They sidled into the first available tube and punched in the number for the next floor up.

They had their arms outstretched, guns pointed straight, by the time the doors opened seconds later. Immediately on the other side was an elderly man with a checkered fedora, with a corgi on a leash, waiting for his turn to go down. James and Jack hastily pulled their weapons back, but the man just stared at them with an exasperated expression, like all this was old hat to him.

"Not again," he groaned with a dejected sigh.

James sidled past and gingerly guided the man and his dog into the elevator, trading places. "You don't want to be around here, old man," he said with as much sensitivity as he could muster. His kindness was rewarded by a discombobulated stream of expletives, something about the 'uppity youths' or maybe he was saying something else. Hard to tell exactly—the man was not enunciating all that well.

Jack peered around the corner and pulled her head back when she spotted the salarian standing in front of one of the doors down the corridor. "Get back," she whispered to James. "He's there."

James switched places with Jack and edged his head out as much as he dared. The elevator bay was the only cover between them and the alien—venturing into the hall would get them spotted immediately. Yep, the salarian was definitely going after Phoria. He was right around the area where she was holed up in. Who did this guy work for? A PMC? A freelancer? The salarian still had not noticed that he was being watched. Very slowly, the thin alien unlatched the submachine gun from its holster and lifted it up towards the door. The weapon was sleek, showing evidence of extensive modifications. A silencer had been fitted at the end of the barrel—those were illegal for civilians in Council space. Even at this distance, James could hear the tiny snap of the safety being switched off.

"Wait…" Jack muttered as she took a closer look. "That's… that's not the room—"

"Quiet," James shushed her as he too flicked off the safety to his pistol. "As soon as he enters…"

The salarian shouldered the submachine gun with deliberate precision and aimed down the sights towards the door latch. The air was split apart with the nearly silent concussions of bullets ripping through the air as shredded woodchips splintered into dust, the lock pulverized in an instant as eight rounds bent it out of shape. Expertly, the salarian kicked the door in, gun at the ready as the alien moved through the nearly invisible dust cloud it had created.

"Go," James said before hurrying at a light jog, taking care to keep his feet silent as he approached the rudely opened door, Jack at his heels.

James motioned for Jack to slow as they were within a few feet of the opened portal. He peeked his head in and, in a fluid motion, brought his weapon to bear as he stood fully within the threshold. The salarian's back had been turned to him this whole time, the thin alien apparently nonplussed when it had entered the room and had found _no one inside_.

"I think you had the wrong room there, buddy," James could not resist saying.

Immediately, the salarian whirled, white-hot fire spewing from his submachine gun as the walls became pockmarked with hip fire. James sent three rounds flying from his own weapon, striking the salarian in the center of mass, but the sudden flaring of blue hexagonal energy told him that he merely struck the alien's shields. Still, that was enough to throw off the alien's aim—the bullets it sent in James' direction went high, shattering one of the light fixtures and causing frosted white glass to sprinkle to the concrete floor.

James ducked behind the doorframe, momentarily protected by enemy fire. He leaned out to open up on the salarian again, but the alien had taken cover behind the bed, having kicked it over to act as makeshift cover. Not that it mattered—the bullets from James' gun could easily penetrate an obstacle like a bed—but it was the fact that he had no idea where the body behind it was positioned… and salarians were quite thin.

From his position, the salarian answered back with a rapid chatter of automatic fire, forcing James to leap back into the hallway to nearly collide with Jack, who was struggling to get a shot but could not without risking hitting James. The wall beyond was scarred as bullets distorted its shape. The smell of cordite reached James' nostrils. His eardrums felt abused—even though the submachine gun was silenced the concussive shockwaves the bullets sent through the air were enough to punish the soft tissues of his head. He felt like he had just staggered home from a concert in which he had been spending the majority of the time standing in front of the speakers.

The door to adjacent room opened and a white-crested helmet poked out. "_What the hell is going on?!_" Phoria screamed as she saw Jack.

The biotic did not answer her verbally. Instead, she screwed up her concentration and focused her energy into a simple push. The scythe of biotic force pressed into the door, swinging it closed again, but not without conking Phoria right in the center of her helmet, knocking her flat on her back and causing her to roll around on the ground back into the room, dazed.

Ignorant to the quarian's plight, James leaned out of cover again to answer back with his own volley. However, his gun ejected a spent thermal clip after he had delivered three bullets… and the slide did not cycle back all the way.

"You've got to be fucking kidding," he muttered. Of all the times to have his pistol jam! A clip was wedged between the magazine and the slide, metal grating on metal.

That did not seem to be a problem exclusive to him. The salarian sat back up and fired several more rounds before his gun clicked open too. The helmeted head dipped down, confused, and found that his weapon had encountered a catastrophic overheating event. Some of the softer metal parts within his weapon had melted, rendering it useless.

Aware that it was in a vulnerable state, the salarian stood and chucked its ruined submachine gun like a frisbee in James' direction. He ducked behind a corner to avoid the projectile in time. Enraged, he too stepped out of cover and pretty much hurled his pistol back at the salarian. The air-bound grip of the gun hit the corner of the alien's visor, cracking it, and causing the salarian to fall straight on his ass.

James saw his chance and took it, bellowing like a lunatic as he barreled through the doorway to erupt in a full-on tackle against the armored salarian. Seeing he was only wearing a shirt and pants up against a fully armored foe, there was quite a lot of pain involved on James' end as his body smashed against the protected coverings the alien wore.

"James, get out of the way!" Jack screamed as she tried to get a clean shot.

Tightly locked together, the salarian suddenly found an opening and reared its head back before throwing it forward in a ferocious headbutt. The forehead of the helmet knocked against James' skull and he almost let go of the mercenary. Blood poured into his eyes. Stars like cigarette burns marred his vision.

The salarian did a complex twist and the dazed James found himself on his back. The alien reached to his side to draw a wickedly curved knife, tribal etchings shaping the blade into a tempestuous curl.

But that was the opening Jack needed. She levelled several shots at the salarian, all of them hitting him in the chest. The salarian jerked back with every blow, frightful blue static of its shields erupting in an earsplitting tempo. One such hit bucked the alien's torso nearly completely upright. Jack then lunged forward and swept her hand in a wide arc, a fan of purple kinetic energy surging from her fingertips, which caught the salarian in the middle and sent him careening into the far wall, which erupted in a dusty shockwave from the impact. Bits of shattered concrete tumbled down around the felled mercenary, exposing the pale glint of rebar.

James sat up, blood nearly encrusting one of his eyes shut, at the same time the salarian was shakily getting back to his feet. He saw the alien make a fist with its hand and a short dagger sprang out from a hidden slit in the armor of its forearm. Alarmed, a burst of adrenaline flooded his brain, forcing him back to his feet so that he could spring forward and slam the salarian back against the wall, grabbing for the knife at the same time. He could hear the alien's grunting coming from the helmet's vocabulator as the two struggled for the weapon—the salarian was using both hands to bring his arm closer and closer to James' face with the point of the knife inching closer and closer to the human's eye.

The marine could not believe it. The cords in his muscles were bulging past his skin but the salarian was nearly as strong as he was.

With a bellow, James abruptly grabbed at the collar of the salarian's armor and pushed off with his feet in the opposite direction, hurling the two into the other wall. The drywall cracked and caved in, showering the two combatants with white dust. Bruised, bleeding from half a dozen cuts, but otherwise intact, James grunted as he now pushed back on the salarian, sending them toppling into a dresser. Objects on top of the furniture fell—there was a crack as something shattered. The salarian was furiously jabbing with his arm now, trying to stick James in his side with the knife, between his ribs to puncture a lung or perhaps cleave his heart in two.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

James managed a wide enough opening so that he could plow his fist into the salarian's partially armored gut. There was a dull snap as James realized that one of his fingers had just broke, but the force of the blow was strong enough to send the salarian doubling over for breath. The alien was still holding onto the human with its free hand. To shake him off, James grabbed at the salarian's frame and embarked into a charge against the connecting wall between the two rooms, looking to smash his opponent directly into it.

But, with a terrific crash, the two burst right through the wall into the other room! The uncarpeted floor was suddenly sprayed with debris as the human and salarian tumbled onto the ground, both shocked, and lay where they had fallen for a moment.

The salarian was the first to rise back up, but his attention was momentarily distracted as he spied the prone body of Phoria, still prostrate on the ground after being smacked in the head, softly groaning as her hands clasped her helmeted temples.

"_There you are_," a breathy voice burst from his helmet, the first audible sound he had made.

Phoria looked up and uttered a terrified cry of fear as she saw the salarian struggle to rise, knife extended from his armor, as she knew what was about to befall her.

A shadow then moved behind the salarian in the form of an enraged James. He hurled himself onto the mercenary, crushing the alien to the ground, before the two of them engaged in another bout of frantic punching, kicking, and muted cursing as the flash of the knife glittered this way and that, desperate to taste blood. James felt a white-hot line cut across his bicep. Red droplets streaked the wall and ground. The pain kicked in a few seconds later. It was a shallow cut, easily ignored. If anything, it made James even angrier.

Rolling and throwing blows without rhythm, the two savagely found their way into the bathroom where their limbs smacked into the shower, the sink, and the toilet. All of the appliances had been bolted into the walls to prevent vandalism. They did not budge. James and the salarian did.

On that stained and dirtied tile floor, James finally got a lock around the salarian's knife arm. He scrambled to his knees and savagely banged the alien's wrist on the edge of the sink several times until the knife broke off at the hilt to clatter to the ground. James kicked it away. The salarian tried to stand on his own accord, but James quickly grabbed him and tried to put him in a headlock. Soon the human realized this was impossible—the armor had several notches around the collar that prevented his arm from choking the salarian's neck. The salarian knew what James was trying to do and was yanking at his arm with all his might, making muffled yells as his feet scrabbled a dusty tattoo on the tiles.

James caught his reflection in the rusty mirror. He took a step forward and plowed the salarian's helmet right in the middle of it. Reflective glass shattered around the helmet, scattering onto the floor. James smashed the helmet against the cracked wall again, denting it. And again. And again. And again. By the time he finally pulled back, the visor was a whitened mess of spiderwebs, the black paint scratched and gouged like a wild animal had been clawing at it.

The ruined helmet, the seals now loose, tumbled from the salarian's head. James only had time to behold an amphibian face with mottled brown and burgundy skin before he dropped to the ground and plunged the salarian's head into the toilet, completely acting on chemical instinct now. Musty water overflowed around the bowl, splashing everywhere. The lights overhead seemed to flicker sinisterly. Limber hands tried to beat James away, but he was in too strong of a position. Bubbles and gurgles trickled from the toilet, the awkwardly bent legs of the alien desperately pushing at anything, trying to escape.

There was a noise behind James. Jack was standing in the doorway, watching what was happening. She might have said something to him, he could not really tell. She only occupied a small part of his subconscious—his focus was right here in this bathroom… with his hands around its neck.

More foul-smelling water frothed angrily as James held the salarian still, but the savage flurries of effort were beginning to diminish. James counted down the seconds, each one feeling like it lasted a lifetime in his head.

The blows to his head and arms were slowly fading.

The motions of the salarian's feet were halting and erratic.

There were hardly any more bubbles surfacing from the toilet.

In mere seconds, it was over.

For several more minutes, James continued to hold the head in place, knowing that it took a long time to thoroughly drown someone. His kept his body rigid, his muscles still exerted, as his breath surged out in wheezes.

Finally, he let go, and the body dropped to the floor, head dripping fluid.

James now tilted his head to look at the man he had just killed. The color had appeared to drain from the salarian's face. One of its eyes was completely bloodshot—a dark olive green color. A thin trickle of fluid wept from the alien's mouth, its lungs waterlogged.

"Is it over?" Jack asked, causing James to jump, not yet comfortable in stowing her pistol.

The panting human turned the body over, his face coated in blood and sweat. "For now…" he breathed.

"I guess it was just good luck that this moron picked the wrong room Phoria was in, huh?"

"No," James shook his head. "He guessed correctly."

Jack blinked, uncomprehending. "Wait… but how…?"

"I booked more than one room," James smirked. "I had a suspicion that my credit chit was being tracked, so I hedged a bet that any methodical bounty hunter would check any room that I put down under my name. I used one chit to pay for this room and I used an unlisted chit for the other."

Phoria then choose that time to come around the corner, groggily still keeping a hand to her head. "So, you used me as bait," she stated. "That was why the both of you left me, so that you would be in a better position to ambush anyone who came by."

James nodded matter-of-factly. "I took a gamble."

"You were playing with my life."

Jack then turned around and prodded Phoria hard in the chest. "Keep up the fucking hypocrite act and see how far it gets you." She then looked at James, who was still hovering over the body. "James, we need to leave. There could be more on their way right now. What are you doing?"

"Just need to… find out who he works for," he said as he ran his hands frantically over the salarian's body, searching for anything he could find that would provide identification.

With some effort, he snapped away one of the salarian's ID chips from his hand terminal and inserted it into his own tool. Immediately, upon activation, a blazing yellow icon appeared over James' hand: a sequenced set of wings positioned in a "V" shape atop a hovering ring. One could hear James and Jack's jaws drop a mile away as they recognized the insignia.

"Oh… _fuck_," Jack blurted out.

"Goddamn it," James hissed.

"What is it?" Phoria groaned, barely paying attention.

James appraised the corpse again, taking no comfort in staring at the man's lifeless eyes, trying to figure out how their paths had gone so wrong when they had crossed and if there could have been an opportunity for them to find a peaceful resolution to their differences.

"_Spectre_," James grimaced as he stood. "We've been sold out."

* * *

**A/N: A little bit of everything in this chapter. Politics, romantic angst, and a violent fight scene. What's not to like?**

**Also, I can confirm that the next couple of chapters will be Roahn-centric, so if you've been awaiting that sort of chapter, then you're in luck. Especially since this next one is rather important to the story at large, but any more I say would be venturing into spoiler-territory... and you know how I feel about that.**

**Playlist:**

**Chimera and the Council**  
**"Incubation"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Alien: Covenant (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Bedside Discussion**  
**"Never Give Up"**  
**Clinton Shorter**  
**The Expanse [Season 3] (Original Television Soundtrack)**

**Bad Housekeeper (Spectre Fight)**  
**"Forced Entry"**  
**Max Richter**  
**Ad Astra (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	20. Chapter 20: A Courteous Gesture

"_There is a point system that determines how your preparedness for the Suicide Mission will affect your final outcome. Unfortunately, there is no way to tell beforehand how many points you might have until the mission has already been started. Good luck!"_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_Berlin, European Continent__  
Alliance HQ  
Earth_

The first thing that Admiral Mihai Vulkov noticed upon entering his office's anterior reception area was the look on his secretary's face. Normally cheery and upbeat woman, Lisbeth had an expression that indicated something was weighing that smile down by several degrees. Vulkov immediately honed in on this discrepancy as he removed his officer's cap, revealing a flat top of hair the color of smoky soot.

Lisbeth spoke before he could. "Welcome back from Montevideo, Admiral." Feigned interest. It came with the job of being a secretary. And the worries of a secretary were secondary to the person she represented. "I hope your visit to the Karde Shipyards was productive."

"Thank you, Lisbeth. There were some items that made my trip worthwhile, yes. Is there anything that—?"

"You have some people in your office waiting to see you," the secretary flicked her eyes to the side. A silent gesture. Evidentially that was had her all concerned. "They… seemed to think it was urgent business."

Vulkov stopped in the middle of the reception area and craned his head to his door. "Are they inside right now?" When Lisbeth nodded, the admiral sighed. "Lisbeth, for god's sake, this isn't a doctor's office where people gather for appointments. I can't afford to see everyone who knocks at my—"

"I think you'll want to make an exception for these people." The secretary leaned forward, her eyes locked onto Vulkov's before she whispered, "_Normandy crew_."

Ah. Well, at least now Lisbeth's anxiousness had a genuine reason for its existence. Vulkov waited a beat to collect his thoughts before providing his secretary with a singular but pronounced bob of thoughtfulness. Expressing relief at not being caught off guard by her alert. Vulkov then made to depart her presence by striding up to the door to his own office, pausing out of habit to pat down his hair, even though not a strand was out of place on his agonizingly close-cropped head. With a minute sagging of the shoulders, Vulkov palmed the keypad to his office and it flashed a green light at him, allowing him entrance into his own domain.

Two steps later and Vulkov was inside. The cone-shaped lamps of the office were set at providing the majority of the room's luminescence but they were overpowered by the light that was coming in from the window to Vulkov's left—a picturesque display of the greater Berlin metropolis, all made possible from the vista within the forty-seventh floor of the monolithic Alliance headquarters structure.

At least, it would have been picturesque if it was not such a cloudy day. A thick veil of condensation hovered above the squashed city, nearly reaching the top of Vulkov's window. Sheets of gray colored the branching streets and layered neighborhoods as though a sheer-thin blanket had been draped across the city—the only building in view that was of comparable height to Alliance headquarters was the Fernsehrturm over near the Alexanderplatz area, its needle tip hidden by the cloud layer. Alliance headquarters was only a few miles away from the tower, having been erected near the old rail station at the north end of the Tiergarten, a thick blot of green vegetation in the middle of the glowing city.

Vulkov's shoes quietly screeched on the polished synthetic wood floor as he turned towards the corner where a set of low sofas had been set up. He found three people staring at him expectantly, just as Lisbeth had said, a duffel bag in front of the middle one, but what threw him off for a second was that none of the strangers was of the same species: a human, a turian, and a quarian.

The quarian Vulkov did not recognize, though he swore that fabric covering she (at least, he was assuming it was a "she") wore was somewhat familiar. Perhaps it was the purple color of the article that was tripping up his familiarity. Next to her, the admiral recognized Garrus Vakarian right off the bat—the eyepiece and the face paint helped to give him away. The human on the other end of the sofa though, gave Vulkov a little more difficulty in his recollection, but once he did finally figure it out, a scowl came to his face. Though he was now sporting a goatee and was grizzled by age, Shepard was an innately familiar face to anyone in the service for all humans and, come to think of it, every other race in the galaxy.

"You have a lot of nerve showing your face in this city again," Vulkov grunted to the former commander, frozen so stiff he might as well have been a block of stone.

Upon the couch, Shepard shrugged. He held an overall neutral expression, a feat all by itself considering the bad memories he had of this city. "You know I wouldn't be here if I didn't have a good reason, Admiral."

Vulkov gave a wordless murmur and briefly walked over to his glass-paneled desk so that he could set his hat down upon it. The faintest rustle of his clothing was amplified by the stone walls that made up the backbone of the room itself. Cut from a famous Italian quarry, the entire building was comprised of the sand-colored shale and granite that was meant to invoke strength and perseverance while also maintaining an aesthetically pleasing component. A large brass-inscribed insignia of the Alliance Navy hung on the wall behind Vulkov's desk. The room had a Spartan-like mien that was quite commonplace amongst those in the military—many servicemen would hold firmly to the tenets of not possessing any items that did not serve a functional purpose in any fashion for years, a symptom common even in those that had voluntarily left the employ of the government.

The admiral tapped his fingers while he stood behind his desk for a moment, glaring at Shepard all the while. In contrast to Shepard's partially ruffled appearance, Vulkov held all the mannerisms of a true military man: straight posture, clean-shaven, piercing eyes, immaculate uniform. Shepard, decked out in a flight jacket, held a bit more of a casual atmosphere that Vulkov could not decide if he should take as an insult to his rank or not.

"You still have outstanding warrants at three separate governmental agencies on this planet as a result of your little escapade here," Vulkov said as he now headed over to take the couch opposite the trio. "Not to mention the Berlin City Police have also put out a warrant of their own, claiming jurisdiction on you after you broke out of their jail."

Shepard just gave a tender shrug, trying to downplay his mirth by not making an obvious glance at Garrus, who had been the one who had sprung him from jail in the first place. "I had the feeling that they didn't like the commotion that was caused as I was being chased through their streets." He gave a distinct pause. "Are you inferring that you'll have me arrested after we're done here?"

It looked like Vulkov dearly wanted to reply in the affirmative, but instead he leaned back on the couch and folded his hands upon his lap. A diplomatic gesture.

"It would technically be the moral thing to do, but throwing you in jail would most likely result in unintended consequences down the line. For the situation at hand, you have too much clout with the public—for obvious reasons, you're a hero to them. I can think of at least eight people off the top of my head whose political careers would be ruined if we put you behind bars."

"Would _you_ happen to be one of the eight?" Garrus burst in, blinking knowingly.

Only Vulkov's eyes shifted to address the turian. "I don't think I need to spell that out for you, Mr. Vakarian."

Next to Garrus, Roahn allowed a small smile. The admiral clearly did not like Garrus' pressing. In Roahn's mind, Vulkov fit the stereotype of every hard-assed human commanding officer that a lot of the old vids had the tendency to depict.

"Dare I ask how you even managed to get here presumably without being spotted, Shepard?" Vulkov asked.

"Took the shuttle down from our ship in orbit," Roahn's father said. "None of which list my name anywhere on the manifest or registry. We also got to use one of HQ's landing pads—we avoided any unnecessary traffic and any prying eyes that way."

"How prudent of you. Hopefully you will continue to maintain this level of discretion while you're on the planet, Shepard, unless you're planning to start _another_ debacle with a private military during your visit."

Now Roahn was not starting to like this man in return. There was a distinct sense of disrespect that stemmed from Vulkov, detectible only when he spoke her father's name instead of his former rank. Though Shepard was no longer in the military, he was frequently referenced with esteem among her peers to the point where he would forever be referred to as a commander. But apparently Vulkov seemed to think otherwise, as if he held the mindset that once someone was out of the service then they henceforth relinquished the privilege of their rank.

Roahn's boot nudged the duffel bag in front of Garrus accidentally. She had the urge to clench her fingers tightly, but had to restrain herself as the admiral was no doubt experienced in detecting minor tics in body language. As a quarian, she was automatically at a disadvantage. She was still not at all enthused at the timing of arriving here after the detour they had made to disrupt that attack by Dark Horizon, and Vulkov's overall demeanor was not helping her agitation levels.

She had to take a breath. _Just relax_.

There was a muffled thump outside the window and everyone except Vulkov turned to look at the source of the noise. A yellow and black striped drone with several orange flashing lights adorning it was buzzing around the outside, a cable running beneath it that was attached to a bundle of long metal poles dangling precariously in the open air.

"Construction drones," Vulkov explained. "A hailstorm came by here last week. They've got the drones outside performing maintenance to the building, fixing the damage. You probably saw the scaffolding."

As a matter of fact, Roahn had. When the shuttle had been coming in for a landing approach at the midway point of the building, a quick glimpse out the window had revealed a significant section of the tower that was encrusted with walkways and tarps with several orange dots—the drones—scurrying around the exterior, floating to and fro wherever their programmed duties took them.

Vulkov then sat in silence as he appraised the three individuals in front of him. "Now is when I hear the explanation for finding you in my office," he stated flatly.

Garrus cleared his throat as he leaned forward. "I suppose I need to explain our jurisdiction in this matter first, admiral. I command the Council XMO known as Umbra Team and we've been given full authority to spearhead the proactive—"

"I _know_ about Umbra Team," Vulkov interrupted with a slight nudge of his eyebrows. "More importantly, I know of the _generous_ circumstances surrounding your mandate."

"You already know?" Garrus was surprised. Umbra was not exactly public knowledge. The team was not necessary required to resign itself to secrecy, but they certainly had not been blatantly advertising their existence.

"I'm the admiral of the Seventh Fleet and the chief commanding officer of the SpecOps branch," the man retorted. "I'm required to know if there are any borderline vigilante groups floating around out there that are expressly given permission to encroach upon human borders."

Roahn noted the admiral's use of the word _encroach_. It was as if he saw Umbra as little better than a PMC, a nuisance impervious to the supposed order and logic the Alliance somehow represented.

"In that case," Garrus continued, "we are here to ask for your help."

"My help?"

"Yes, admiral. On a few of our missions, we have come into contact with unusual enemy forces that have been committing acts of wanton violence mostly against colonists in the outer territories. Now, we have reason to believe that the people behind this are—"

"If it has been mostly colonists in the outer territories that have been affected," Vulkov interrupted as he raised his hand a couple inches above his knee, "what makes you think that the Alliance will be the one to claim jurisdiction? I would assume that your immediate chain of command is directed to the Council, is it not?"

Garrus looked like he had to bite his tongue, miffed at being cut off. "It isn't so much where these massacres took place but by whom."

"Are you insinuating that Alliance personnel have been committing _war crimes_ in unmonitored space?"

"To a point, yes."

Vulkov now slowly leaned forward, his hands clenching his knees. "I want you to be absolutely certain with what you're saying, Mr. Vakarian. Even if you are correct in your assessment, bringing light to matters like this is not something that can easily be fixed, even _with_ me on your side."

Roahn had a good idea what Vulkov was referring to. All militaries in point of fact were biased against themselves when prosecuting their own for war crimes. They did not want to go through all the effort just to tarnish themselves by admitting that individuals wearing their colors were dishonoring their legacy through their unbecoming conduct. To prosecute was to admit fault and the military would rather not admit fault for as long as possible. That was how crimes got covered up, be it from simple assault to far greater infractions like rape and murder.

"We have the evidence to prove any allegations," Garrus answered back. "To that end, we have—"

"Does the name _Aleph_ sound familiar to you at all, admiral?" Shepard inserted, impatient at Garrus trying to beat around the bush.

Roahn's eyes made sure to hone in on Vulkov's face, desperate to witness any reaction. She waited with bated breath, biting her lip.

The admiral, in a remarkable show of effort, did not alter his expression a whit, but Roahn did detect a hint of stiffness enter where his neck met his collar. A faint twitch at the man's jawline. A nearly indiscernible squint of the eyes.

"I suppose it's not entirely coincidental that you asked that question," Vulkov said tacitly. "Considering that, just a few days ago, our database detected a user attempting to look up information on that exact subject. Would it be fair to say that you might be responsible for the source of this inquiry? That, upon being refused access to the database initially your next course of action was to try _my_ office?"

"Actually," Roahn inserted, speaking for the first time, "_I_ was the one who searched for Aleph in the Alliance records, Admiral. The database found a match on that name to a highly classified document buried deep in the archives, so we know for a fact that someone in the Alliance has information on who he really is."

Vulkov honed in on Roahn, seemingly studying her as if he had just noticed her. "And… who might you be?" he asked, trying so very hard not to seem too impolite.

"Roahn'Shepard," she said simply. "Lieutenant Commander of Umbra Team."

And there it was. The sudden and unfortunate realization that manifested into an immediate shift in demeanor once her last name had been revealed. For years, Roahn had despised the attitude reversals that the connotation of her family name caused, although this time she had been relishing it for some reason. Probably because she did not particularly care for Vulkov all that much and had wanted to see him shook up for once. Apparently she had received just what she had been hoping for.

Vulkov shifted his eyes from Roahn to Shepard and back again, trying to understand the process for how a quarian had come to have a human last name, as if he had the outrageous thought that some mutated biological process had somehow been responsible for this outcome, rather than the truth which was far more simply explained.

"Ah…" Vulkov murmured as he lifted a finger. "So you're…"

"We have irrefutable proof that our subject in question—Aleph—has come to be in possession of experimental Alliance technology," Shepard evenly took control, taking care to speed past the familial revelation without as much as a blink. "Portions of armor plating, to be exact. Now, this could mean two things. One is that the armor had been stolen from whatever Alliance warehouse it had been issued, in which case it would be expected that a theft report would have been issued, one that we have not been able to locate if it _does_ happen to exist. The second is that it was issued to Aleph at some point, which would be a confirmation that he is or was an agent of the Alliance."

Now that Roahn figured she had a handle on Vulkov's tics, she did take note that he was quite an easy man to read now that she knew what to look for. Right now, it seemed that the admiral would have loved to fall back on the tried and true option utilized by many a politician when confronted with news of an unsavory sort: _deny, deny, deny_. However, Vulkov was military. And those in the military tended to have the bipartisan urge to be forthcoming and transparent in their interactions all in the name of personal accountability.

Wishful thinking? Most likely, but hope was in short supply these days. It would not do to outright refuse it.

Regardless, Roahn found that she was tapping her fingers on her thigh nervously. She had to force herself to stop.

Vulkov took a diplomatic beat before he breathed in. When he next spoke, he did so with deliberation. "The armor you were trying to look up was a special prototype created at a skunkworks site in Osaka. It was the product of the Alliance reverse-engineering the asari-made Silaris armor, which as you know, is used on warships but rather sparingly as it is quite expensive to make. Carbon nanotube sheets woven with CVD-diamond and crushed by mass effect fields, if I recall the composition correctly. Very dense and quite adept at withstanding extreme temperatures."

Roahn held her breath, hardly daring to believe where this was going.

"The goal of the project was to create special armor for our N7 troops. This armor could theoretically take the full brunt of a ten machine-gun onslaught… without having to utilize any shielding. It would have been a game changer. However, despite engineering's best efforts, it was determined that the armor would have been too cost-prohibitive to put into production and so the prototype was shelved. It was the only example the project had ever concocted. But… shortly before the war, someone had the idea to put the prototype to use and issued it to a particular operative. It was never listed as stolen or misplaced. As far as I know, it has been out in the field before I even became aware of its existence."

Intensity furrowed over Shepard's brow as he leaned forward.

"That operative was Aleph, I take it?" It was more of a statement than an actual question.

There was nowhere for Vulkov to go. He just gave a singular, solemn nod. "He was indeed working for the Alliance. Deep cover. The only references to him in any documents are to his alias. What hasn't been redacted has been left deliberately ambiguous. There's nothing there that gives you any information on him. We don't know his name, his age, or where he comes from. I probably couldn't even confirm for you if he was a human, to tell you the truth."

Hidden from sight, Roahn clenched her prosthetic hand. She felt her face smoldering as a darkness floated in front of her eyes. _I'm getting closer to you now_.

"You said that he _was_ working for the Alliance?" Garrus pointed out. "Then you know he's left for good?"

Vulkov gave a hasty shrug. "There was a particular division within the navy briefly mentioned in those documents that I presume was where Aleph reported to. It is confirmed that there has been no communication from this division based on the fact that its commanding officer was confirmed to have been killed during the Reaper War. I would assume that Aleph cut ties with the Alliance shortly thereafter."

"Do you have the name of the commanding officer?"

"I do not."

"Then how do you know he was killed?"

"One of the redacted documents mentions the officer as being a crewmember of the SSV _Raleigh_," Vulkov said. "The _Raleigh_ was confirmed lost with all hands during the final battle at Earth. Seeing as we've not had anyone from that ship show up since it was destroyed, it stands to reason that the officer perished in the attack."

"Or managed to fake his death," Garrus mused.

Vulkov stared at the turian for a few seconds. "I can assure you, Mr. Vakarian, that the officer did not survive the battle. Our recovery efforts were a bit protracted, I'll admit, but we did recover all the bodies on board the wreckage of the _Raleigh_. Those that were too damaged to take back were all accounted for in the ship's logs. Other than that, I can't reveal anything else to you on that."

Roahn shifted in her seat anxiously before taking the lead, her vocabulator strobing frantically. "But what about when the records start? Do you know when the Alliance began to file info on Aleph?"

Sheepish, the admiral could only spread his hands. "We don't have the full picture, unfortunately. To my knowledge, the records on the subject only start in the late 70s. Roughly a few years before you," he nodded to Shepard, "took command of the _Normandy_. He's like a ghost."

"And the documentation on Aleph doesn't help clear anything up?" Shepard asked.

"It's all heavily redacted, like I said," Vulkov scratched at his chin. "His dossier is also not located on the central server. It's in an offsite location, disconnected from the extranet."

"First things first," Shepard said. "How can we get the files un-redacted? Is that where you come in, Admiral?"

Vulkov shook his head. "Not me. The files are locked by a bio-signature. Only the individuals named in the documents or the person who sealed the files away can restore the redactions."

"Okay, so who sealed the files away?"

"I don't know."

"Was it Aleph?"

"_I don't know_."

"We can figure that out later," Roahn said as she waved a hand toward her father. She let the silence hang in the air for a few seconds, wanting to ensure that everyone had a moment to think straight before returning to Vulkov. "Do you at least know where the files are?"

The admiral craned his head over to the window, where a trio of construction drones were now proceeding to wash the windows. Soapy fluid flowed across the glass. Thick rivulets with bubbles dribbled down the front before being quickly wiped away.

"It won't make any difference," he said. "The files are stored in a security vault at an Alliance base on Luna. The same biologic restrictions apply. You wouldn't be able to _enter_ to even get your hands on them."

Roahn blinked, her body feeling rather raw as her enviro-suit seemed to be hugging her closer. Images of glass-like blobs of superheated moon dust and rock, surging forth in a violent hailstorm amidst a wall of enemy fire blasted into her head for a brief second. Muted thumps of grenade echoes pummeling her eardrums. The crackle of her comrades' death throes over the radio. Her own breath being overpowered by the pounding of her heart while weightlessness sent her flying across a dry and barren landscape.

_Luna_, she mouthed before she looked up.

"The security site on the moon. Is it in…" Roahn paused as she tried to recall the name, "…Portskerra Base?"

Vulkov, already in a semi-petrified state, went even more rigid. "How did you know that?"

Roahn did not answer right away because she had been momentarily rendered speechless from Vulkov's confirmation, though there was no way for the admiral to tell what sort of effect his words had had on the quarian.

_Crumpled on the cold ground, cradling a shattered hand. A dark red pool growing around her. A silhouette against a bright, circular opening. A deadly and sinister voice. "__**You are not to kill this one.**__" Fire and steam bursting from a jagged mouth filled with razors. Heat blistering and blood sizzling as her scream became her world._

She was pulled back as a twisting sensation curled at her stump. "That was what he was there for…" she murmured.

Everyone around her did a double-take—they had not heard her properly.

"What was that, Roahn?" Garrus asked.

Trying to control the trembling of her hands, Roahn became more animated as she took a deep breath before speaking. "I know why Aleph went to Luna! He wasn't there for an… an artifact or anything that he was making. He was there to collect his own records! Maybe to delete them or to prevent anyone else from looking at them but… but that has to be it!"

Unconsciously, the quarian flexed her left hand. All that needless death and her own maiming for the acquisition of a document that she would not even be able to access in the first place. Aleph had invaded that base to cover his tracks and had, by any measure, succeeded in his task. Roahn almost slumped in her despair—if she had held off on mounting a singular assault inside that base, she probably would have made it off that moon completely intact. In more ways than one.

Shepard had been looking at his daughter thoughtfully as she had been processing all this. Her introspection only lasted a few seconds at most but that was enough for her father to detect the churning conflict battling within her very mind at this moment. His face drooped as he watched Roahn struggle with this knowledge as though he could feel her very anguish.

"I think," Shepard turned back to Vulkov, "that we can rule out ever taking a look at those files. If Aleph actually retrieved them, then we have to assume they're no longer in play."

"But that wasn't the only vault theft that took place in Alliance territory, right Roahn?" Garrus glanced at his XO. "Luna was just an outlier compared to the other bases Aleph hit."

Now Vulkov squinted deeply in confusion. "What are you going on about?"

"He's right," Roahn remembered as she recovered. "I saw the aftermath of what he did in New York. The circumstances were very similar to other sites across the galaxy. Vaults plundered, the guards brutally killed, and any witnesses murdered or otherwise scarred for life." Her luminous eyes grabbed for Vulkov's attention. "I know _what_ was in that vault on Earth, Admiral. Are you going to tell me or will I have to show you?"

The admiral's reticence in answering provided as much of an answer as if he had spoken. The self-censorship was paramount to the truth, one that everyone in the room already knew but needed to have the question voiced in order to cull the liars from those who were otherwise well-intentioned.

Now Roahn dragged out the duffel bag from where it had been sitting in front of Garrus' feet. She lifted it onto the low table separating them. A muffled bang—something heavy—settled on tempered glass. The quarian kept starting at Vulkov as she reached over and unzipped the bag. A hermetically sealed clear cylinder now sat revealed with the deflated duffel bag crumpled around it. The canister had a metallic base where it stored a battery that fueled an ionic radiation inner shield around the object within.

The Reaper artifact, the dense sphere colored darker than night, sat superimposed in the middle of the canister, the manufactured ridges that looked like melted planetary crust glistening from the light shining in.

Vulkov tilted his head, still not speaking, but his eyes held an intrinsic understanding.

Roahn's outstretched fingers grazed the surface of the container that held the evil obelisk within. "You've seen items like this before, yes?"

The admiral's mouth set itself into a hard line. He nodded.

"The Alliance has been keeping Reaper artifacts within its territory, yes?"

Another nod.

Now Roahn leaned forward with bated breath. "You've been losing inventory on these artifacts because Aleph has been stealing them, correct?"

"You're making it sound like the Alliance has neither the resources nor the manpower to prevent petty theft from occurring at some of our most top-secret sites, Lieutenant Commander," Vulkov said, visibly trying not to get heated.

"Yet… it _is_ happening, isn't it? Admiral, do you have any idea why Aleph is so interested in artifacts like these?"

Vulkov scratched at his chin. "I've been told that some pieces have been vanishing from our control—but you never heard that from me and I will never freely admit that in any public forum. As for Aleph's reasoning for stockpiling them in the first place, I don't have the first clue. It most likely isn't to replicate our own justification for keeping them, I can tell you that. But I would also question your reasoning for bringing an artifact like that here to my office. If those things are as dangerous as you're intimating, why risk bringing one here? A simple picture would have done the trick to prove you have one in your possession."

"Pictures can be faked," Shepard said. "We figured that you would be more forthcoming if we showed you the artifact in person. And you don't need to worry about the threat of indoctrination, Admiral. That has not been a viable weapon for nearly thirty years after the Reaper network was knocked offline. But I don't understand something. The Reapers were all supposed to be _destroyed_. Last I heard, the Council had ordered all of the disabled hulks to be disposed of into black holes, to be crushed into the size of an atom and disposed of forever. Why are we still keeping their relics around, knowing the damage they could have done to us?"

"What you are doing is preaching to the choir," Vulkov responded. A twitch of irritation at the corner of his jaw. "The decision to preserve Reaper artifacts for study had nothing to do with me. Had it boiled down to my decision I would have had us chuck them all into the nearest sun and be done with it. But the eggheads with their silver tongues managed to spin convincing yarns to the right people in the government—something about the 'scientific responsibility' to know everything we could possibly learn about our enemy. Where they came from, what they're made of, you get the gist. What I do know is that, after all this time, our studies did not come up with anything remotely useful from those artifacts. No breakthroughs, no miracle wonders, absolute fuck all." Vulkov stood, a man warring on multiple fronts, and faced the window. "That was why the artifacts were put into storage, because someone somewhere has the naïve hope that our technology will someday improve to the point where we will be able to glean something. For the time being, it seems we had hit a wall."

"We both know it won't amount to anything," Shepard similarly stood, though he wobbled on unsteady legs, a grimace flashing across his face for a brief moment. Roahn jolted as she thought her father was about to fall but stilled herself as he regained his strength, pushing the pain back down where it had stemmed from. "But Aleph seems to think that it will."

"So we're to assume that he knows something the best minds in the Alliance do not?" Vulkov frowned. "And _if_ he somehow does, is this a prelude for you requesting a call to arms? Marshal our forces against this enemy before he somehow accomplishes… what?"

"Do you think that we can afford to wait?" Shepard urged as he walked up to Vulkov, managing to straighten to his full height, matching the admiral eye to eye. "We need an armed response to answer this threat."

Vulkov looked lost. "_What_ threat? And where could we find Aleph? You said it yourself that indoctrination is no longer in play. What danger could these artifacts possibly pose to us? These are answers I _know_ you don't have, Shepard. It's because you don't have them that I won't humor the idea of sending the fleets out against a lone person whom we know _very little about_."

Roahn sensed that their conversation was nearing its finale. Shepard and Garrus seemed to detect that change in the air as well. They had showed all the hands they had but had not appeared to have made a dent in Vulkov's defenses. Some part of the quarian wanted to scream in the admiral's face. The other part sympathized with him—they had just presented the man with several unknown variables and a lot of suppositions. Decisions at his station could not be based on mere assumptions, especially if he did not share the mindset from which these assumptions stemmed.

Shepard dipped his head in a singular bob before turning to Garrus with only his eyes flicking over to his daughter. A mute signal. Roahn leaned over and zipped the canister that contained the artifact back up before standing alongside her captain. She noted that her father and Vulkov had embarked into a deep and knowing look that transcended disappointment. It was as if Shepard knew that he had convinced Vulkov in some small part that was atomically discernable but the admiral's veil of stubbornness and scorn kept that part from arising. Shepard could sense this withdrawal and slowly departed from the man's presence, his eyes leaving Vulkov's face last in a torturous scraping motion.

Roahn let her father leave first, then Garrus, before she too left with a departing glance. The admiral stood alone in his office, hands in his pockets. If anything, she could have sworn that the man was shivering. It was as if they had left him with nothing but bad news.

And in some sense, that was true.

* * *

After the door closed, Vulkov immediately walked back over to his desk and sagged into his chair, a hand at the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath, held it, before letting it out in a slow exhale. He tapped the area above his nose and contemplated the inside of his eyelids before he dropped his arms onto the armrests of the chair, his back molded to its contours. Berlin whirred by just out the window, but he did not take notice. Rather, he stared off into space, as if waiting for something to occur, or someone to come back through those doors.

No sooner had he come to a determination to continue with his business as normal was when, out of nowhere, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end, as if exposed to an electrical charge. A scything glow began to emanate from the corner of the room and a high-pitched whine emitted at the same time—Vulkov did not look at the source of the noise and the light for he could see the back of his hand brighten dimly. He froze in his seat, still staring straight ahead, even as the light faded. An aura of quiet then enveloped his senses before it was replaced by the slow and purposeful clomping of boots headed in his direction.

Now a churning throb wriggled into Vulkov's ears. A dark and deadly chorus. Whispers in a dead language murmuring taunts. He blinked painfully as he could _feel_ a presence just to his left, behind his chair.

"How much did you hear?" Vulkov spoke out loud, not turning around in his seat. He tried to swallow, but that was a fruitless effort.

There was no intake of breath in the beat before the response. Nothing to indicate that something else in this room was alive.

"**Enough.**"

"Then you know that I didn't lie to them. Everything I said was the truth."

"**I know**." The voice was powerful enough to conjure demons in Vulkov's mind, as if it could shatter glass and crack stone with a mere whisper. "**But they didn't ask you the right questions. I wonder… would you have been as cooperative if they had?**"

Now the admiral turned to view his distorted visage in within the domed prison of Aleph's helmet. He sucked in a worried breath as the being towered over his chair. The armored denizen appeared calm, poised, and eerily patient. His empty hands hung at his sides expectantly. His head dipped downward towards Vulkov, as if awaiting a damning confession to bear his sins on display.

Vulkov eyed the thickly encased fingers in fear, knowing that his head could be squeezed like an overripe fruit easily between them. "We both know that it wouldn't matter. They would not let me be the lynchpin in their plan if it came to that."

"**Nor in mine**," Aleph agreed. "**You did well and held your own admirably. You told them nothing that I would have them rather not hear, though your own visibility in this tangled web has been limited. But now the time has come for your part in the Tranquility to conclude. Your cooperation and position has been important to my work… yet I always knew that your value to me would decrease with each passing day. Now is the time where we part ways, Admiral. You should be honored—you far outlasted my expectations.**"

There was a glint of movement behind Aleph's still cloak. The quadrupedal form of Raucous edged into sight, the ridges upon the cyborg's spine flared, sharp as knives. Slits that trapped a fire raging inside burned two holes in the metallic canine skull. The four clawed limbs made gashes upon the floor as the heavy cyborg prowled near his master, hissing in anticipation.

Shying away as far as his chair would let him, Vulkov trembled before Aleph, who had remained straight and still, endless judgment mirrored in his helmeted gaze. What eyes that lingered beyond that tormenting glass were known to no other man, for they could not find understanding in Aleph. The fissures in the admiral had been torn open—the proud warrior had now aged into a frightened old man in the presence of a monster.

"Please…" Vulkov whimpered as he raised a hand to ward off an attack that had not yet manifested. "Please… I'm begging you…"

"**Men of lesser statures have been able to confront their destiny with ease. Which pantheon will you choose to stand with?**"

"That… that quarian. She had one of the pieces you were searching for! She… she's still in this building! P-Promise me that you'll let me live… and… and… and I'll call her back in. I can get you that artifact… if you'll just let me live…"

Aleph gave no indication that he was giving the offer any consideration, for he had not moved so much as a muscle since he had manifested within Vulkov's office. He stood in his preferred silence, merely watching. Observing. Learning. Thinking.

Finally, he spoke.

"**It is… of no concern**."

Vulkov's face fell. "N-No concern…?"

"**What you misunderstand, Admiral, is that I have always sought to bring palpability to my plan with a laboring patience so great that you could not hope to imagine. All the pieces will eventually come into my possession. It might not be today, or tomorrow, but it will transpire. I have waited this long. I will be able to wait a little longer. When my Monolith is complete the Tranquility will begin and the galaxy will be offered a second chance at the opportunity they missed the first time.**"

The admiral was about the furthest thing from comfortable, his previous attitude of condescension all but completely fled in terror. There was no pretense of being in charge anymore from his person. Command of the room had been yanked under his feet.

"My family…" he still mustered the nerve to beg. "At least… just… leave them be. That's… that's the one thing I ask of you."

Now the polished hand of Aleph reached out, breaking the petrified spell that had been self-imposed upon him. Cold fingers encrusted in dense armor brushed Vulkov's face, causing him to flinch and shake heavily as the inorganic touch slowly closed upon the side of his head.

"**The sins of the father will not be bestowed upon the son**," Aleph promised as he leaned down, bringing his helmeted head inches from Vulkov's shaking face. "**Yet those sins demand suffering**."

Vulkov was a worm in the shadow of Aleph. He could only behold his own pathetic face sent searing right back at him.

"**You did lie to them about one thing**," Aleph whispered as he brought himself close to the admiral's ear, vocabulator a centimeter away from the shivering organ. "**You didn't tell Shepard who was really responsible for locking my records away on Luna. For if you had said that it had been you, that would have betrayed your deal with me.**" Aleph waited for his words to sink in, continuing only when he saw Vulkov's face shift into sheer panic. "**Your attempt to obstruct me was an admirable feat of courage, Vulkov. Admirable… but so very stupid. I know what you were planning to do with my records. Although I'm curious what your plan was to get around the bio-codes attached to the documents to open them. Only I and a man far greater than you ever could have been would have that kind of privilege. Did you really think you could use them as an insurance policy against me? That possessing them would allow you to stall for time? There is nothing in those documents that could be used against me, Vulkov. Nothing. But apparently, you thought otherwise.**"

Aleph then straightened, becoming a mountain over the chair as the admiral was abruptly thrown into darkness, the air around him having grown quiet and still. His hand still remained locked onto the human's face, the brushed Silaris armor remaining icicle cold even against the burning flesh of the man.

"**And that foolishness is why you have left me no choice**."

In the next moment, Vulkov's fate was sealed.

The hand touching Vulkov's face never wavered, but the man gave a nearly imperceptible jolt as it felt like a slight burning sensation had enveloped every one of his nerves. A dull ring emitted in the air. There was no time to comprehend what was happening to him. The pain erupted from everywhere and nowhere. Vulkov started to wheeze before undergoing intense spasms in his chair—his legs were kicking out in all directions, his fingernails were gouging cuts into his chair, and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head while garbled noises flowed uncontrollably from his throat.

Aleph silently watched, straightening back up, as the admiral thrashed in his seat.

Invisible fluxes like buffeting currents surged into the matrices enveloping flesh within Vulkov's skull. In less than a microsecond, they all collided, creating a miniature nova that emitted powerful ripples through solid matter. It was over in an instant. There was a slight _pop_ and Vulkov's eyes immediately became flooded bright red with blood, dark trails weeping from his eyelids, making him look demonic. His nose let go and gushed blood over his navy coat. Crimson bubbles frothed at the corners of his mouth. Violent waterfalls poured from his ears, making it look like the man had melted in his seat.

Vulkov's foot gave a final twitch and then he was still. His dead visage sagged and twisted in the curvature of his killer's reflective hemisphere, soaked in blood.

Aleph lifted his hand away from the corpse, examining it to find a bright bead of blood perched precariously upon the tip of a finger. The only stain garnered. He wiped it away on the dead man's coat. His hands as empty as they had been the entire time, the armored monstrosity showed no mirth, reveled not a whit, but stared in silence at the human he had just killed, knowing that the act had brought him no satisfaction to be gleaned.

Knowing what he knew, Aleph considered Vulkov to be fortunate.

* * *

The mood was dark as Roahn, Shepard, and Garrus treaded over to the elevator bays at the far end of the floor. The building here smelled of cleaning chemicals and treated stone. There was no traffic at this level so the three of them were free to take up as much space as possible between them, a hunting pack ambling through shadowy territory. Ironic, given that personal space was at a premium on some parts of Earth.

Everyone silently waited around until the lift they had called finally arrived to pick them up. Garrus and Shepard entered after the doors had slid open, somewhat stymied by Shepard's halting gait. Roahn was about to enter last when she gave a panicked stumble, as though gravity had suddenly shifted upon her person. The duffel that hung around her shoulder swung precariously. She placed a hand against the side of the doors, preventing them from sliding shut. It took a second before Garrus and Shepard had noticed that Roahn had stopped before turning around with confused looks on their faces.

"I just realized something," she murmured out loud, still not stepping into the elevator. "Some parts of that conversation didn't make any sense. Vulkov _knew_ the documents on Luna were redacted, right?"

"So he said," Garrus affirmed.

Roahn rapidly blinked. "But the documents were already in the vault on Luna. Vulkov said they were sealed away… but how would he have known that unless _he_ was the one who put Aleph's records there?"

"So he lied to us," Garrus said.

Hidden behind her visor, Roahn gave a grim smile. "He lied to us."

She took her hand away from the door.

With nothing blocking it anymore, the elevator doors quickly shut with a flash of steel, separating Roahn away from her father and Garrus. Startled, she took a half-step back. There had been no time to react. In dismay, she looked at the floor counter above the doors to find that the lift was already on a fast track to the bottom floor, helpless to stop its descent.

Roahn was now alone.

"Damn it," she bemoaned, not finding the circumstances to be all that amusing. Still, it was best to jump on this opportunity as soon as possible. It would take several minutes for her father and Garrus to find a way back up to this level. She was certain that she held the upper hand and would be easily able to offset Vulkov once confronted.

Roahn marched back into the office from the hallway, crossed through the suite inside, ignored the protests of Vulkov's secretary, and levelled a three-fingered hand upon the unlocked portal to where she had last left the admiral, palming it open.

"Admiral?" she asked as the door began to open. "There was one last thing that I wanted to—"

The next few moments stretched out towards infinitude as all of the adrenaline emitters in Roahn's body spiked into overdrive. Echoes of screams telling her to run blared out in a congregation in her head. A hand of icy blackness closed around her heart. Her mouth and tongue became an artic desert as tendrils of fear manifested themselves as inky roots across her eyes.

Aleph, standing over the emaciated corpse of Vulkov, turned calmly in place, an anthem of chilling whispers seemingly muttering all around him. Behind him, Raucous edged to the side, giving a feral hiss at Roahn. A low growl—perhaps emanating from outside—rumbled through the room. Roahn felt the duffel bag, the artifact within, tumble from her shoulder to land at her feet, the sound ignored as she stood frozen in the presence of the tall and mysterious being.

Her body lost all feeling. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Seemingly locked within Aleph's reflective helmet, a firecloud of unnamable proportions billowed eagerly. The monster held his own hell for all to see, embracing the embodiment as he found only muted emotion yearning to break through Roahn's own visor. Curious, he took a step forward, his feet soundless upon the ground. His cloak trembled with each impact—fabric waves flowing slowly like disturbances in a pond of mercury.

Ropes of what felt like searing metal heated from the precise flame of a blowtorch felt like they were wrapping their ends around and around Roahn's left arm, but when she looked down, all she could see was her metal appendage twitching uncontrollably. Phantom pain. A thick but soft cry shot through the gaps in her teeth, a reaction to a false sensation, an actual pain localized over a fictional location.

Roahn's vision grayed. She had forgotten to breathe. Only when she managed to suck in a torturous gasp, did she come to her senses.

The heat around her arm faded. Her stump simmered and cooled to a tender ember smolder.

In the next instant, Roahn reached down and yanked her pistol from her holster. The safety was already off. She rapidly lined up the sights to her eye and, once Aleph's center of mass was underneath the middle tack, she unleashed the first shot, already prepared to send several more to follow.

But Aleph had also reacted at the same time. He lunged forward as he swept his right hand from his left wrist upward. Glitters of a ferrous-like substance hovered in the air like a fine mist before a sudden electrical pulse the color of a ferocious sunset shot out in all directions, crackling into the form of a wide sword that it looked like it could cleave the sky in two.

Aleph swung the blade, catching Roahn's bullet on its face. A geyser of sparks erupted outward, spraying over the swordsman's feet. Roahn fired again. And again. Aleph calmly waved his arm to meet each shot, disintegrating every bullet as they impacted on his omni-sword. Loud clashes and bangs erupted in the small room, and tendrils of lightning and sparks greedily grasped at Roahn, completely terrifying her. Aleph then gave a slash at the ceiling, shattering the overhead light and causing the entire room to be consumed in the helpless strobing throes that projected nightmarish shadows of the combatants over the walls.

Wordlessly, Aleph gave a small leap before thrusting his unarmed right hand out in a gentle push. Roahn steeled herself, as if she expected a burst of biotic energy to flare from his palm, but was instead surprised when every single muscle in her body erupted in a silent but agonizing cry. It had felt like someone had injected pure fire into her veins. The quarian reeled, her mouth open in a quiet scream, her pistol tumbling from loose fingers. The weapon settled next to the fallen duffel. Rigid and trapped in helpless spasms, Roahn swayed in place as it felt like her body was sizzling just underneath her skin. Tears clambered at the corners of her eyes as she felt her feet leave the floor, nestled in an invisible grip.

She was levitating a foot over the ground now.

Bleary and confused, Roahn spread her arms as she struggled to scream. _What… is… this?_

There was a sucking noise as Aleph deactivated his sword and dropped his arms to his side. The pain had departed Roahn at this point, but there was still the lingering afterimage that she could not shake off—her body still remembered the violating sensations and quivered, a fearful reflex. Roahn was still unbelievably hovering in place, as if she had been trapped in an anti-gravity chamber.

_This isn't biotics_, she realized helplessly. _This is something else_.

Aleph walked up to Roahn and considered her shaking form thoughtfully. He was close enough to touch her, yet he purposefully kept his distance. As if he was interested in studying her like she was a lab animal or if the idea of disposing of her was somehow detestable to his tastes.

"**You have a habit of showing up whenever I choose to venture outward, Roahn'Shepard**," Aleph said.

_He knows my name_, she blearily thought before her mouth automatically responded. "I would follow you to the edge of the galaxy if it meant that I could cut your head off," she seethed through clenched teeth.

"**Careful. You're blurring the line between confidence and irrationality**."

"Fuck… you," Roahn gasped, incensed at Aleph's condescending tone.

"**I'll ignore that insensible outburst.**"

Roahn's face was a mask of pain and hatred, her clenched jaw crushing her teeth together in a frenzied chatter.

"**You're quick to violence**," Aleph said, "**but that is all reactionary. Instilled from your parents, no doubt. Perhaps when everything they saw in this galaxy was under the barrel of a gun, they lost their capacity to discern perspective. There is much more dimensionality to our 'conflict' than you realize, Roahn'Shepard. It is why I spared your life on Luna… or did you think that was a mistake on my part? Regardless, you seem to lack a certain gratitude**."

"Let me go," Roahn hissed, her legs continuing to dangle in mid-air, "and I'll show you just how _grateful_ I can be."

Aleph's silver head gave the slightest shake. "**Neither of us will benefit from making a martyr out of you. You still have not realized the choice you have yet to make. You can still walk away. Disengage yourself and guarantee not only your life but the lives of your friends and comrades. Is that not preferable to the turbulent life you pursue?**"

Now it was Roahn's turn to shake her head, her eyes filled with fiery anger. "I can't. I _won't_. You _mutilated_ me when you took my arm."

"**A courteous gesture. Not barbarism**."

"I fail to… see the difference," Roahn gritted.

"**Then I suppose we'll soon see just how willing you are to discover the truth for yourself,**" Aleph said as he bent over to the duffel bag. He calmly unzipped it, demonstrating an unusual delicateness in his actions. He lifted out the canister containing the artifact, hefted it in a hand, and unscrewed the top. Slowly, he tipped the container so that the matte sphere tumbled into his hand with a soft clunk. He considered the obelisk for a moment, appreciating its contours and how the plates upon the face seemed to fold over one another like an imprecise puzzle. "**If it is any consolation**," he said without looking at Roahn, "**this would have ended up in my possession one way or another. I suppose I must relay my appreciation to you for ferrying this all this way. It has had a long journey and still has far to go until it reaches its destination.**"

Unceremoniously, the unseen force keeping Roahn aloft suddenly switched itself off. Roahn felt her gut drop to the floor right before she hit the ground hard. She crumpled, a puppet without a puppeteer. She splayed her hands across the ground, panting hard, tingles radiating over her skin. Aleph did not seem to care as he stood only feet from her—he had deliberately deactivated whatever energy field that had been manipulating her body as a taunt, to show her that he did not need to control her actions to be the true lord over her.

An unbelievable anger burgeoned within Roahn's stomach, acidic bile and frothing rage. The inky blackness melted from her vision—she saw only red. Her prosthesis clenched so hard that she could hear the hydraulics hiss and bleed air in protest.

So close… Aleph was right… there.

_One quick move and it would all be…_

Roahn leaped to her feet, omni-blade extended as she hurled her body in a manic thrust, the point of her weapon stabbing at Aleph's neck. She practically flew through the air, mouth open in a frantic howl, though no sound escaped her lips.

But Aleph turned with a whirl of his cloak. A large hand shot from nowhere and fastened itself securely around Roahn's metal wrist.

…_over._

Roahn's eyes opened wide in a panic. Aleph uttered no response as he smoothly rotated his body, throwing the quarian down upon the ground hard onto her back. She cried out as she felt the back of her ribs bruise. His hand was still clamped on her wrist, her omni-blade still ignited and locked in a precarious position.

_No! Nononononono!_

"**I was wondering if you would try to chance it,**" Aleph spoke without an iota of smugness, as if it was no big deal that he had just stopped such a wild attempt on his life. "**Desperation and the perceived loss of control. You have yet to master your own inhibitions. Perhaps I shall dispense another courtesy to emphasize that point**."

The hand that gripped Roahn's prosthesis, omni-blade still wrapped around her wrist, began to move, angling Roahn's arm toward her face. The curved weapon continued to blaze freely, humming with energy as its edges sizzled in the air. The quarian's eyes widened as she tried to edge her head away, but she was in a bad position. Desperately, she tried to deactivate the blade around her own arm—just a mere thought… an instinctive reaction to just turn it off—but the weapon did not blink into nothingness. It continued to brighten the world before her eyes, deadly and humming.

Her own weapon was being turned against her.

_This is impossible!_ Roahn thought. She hammered the command to turn off her blade over and over in her head, akin to depressing a large red button repeatedly, but nothing happened. _How? How?!_ Omni-tools were linked via implant connections. She should have been able to turn the weapon off as easily as taking a breath!

But Aleph's powerful grip continued to push the blade further and further towards her face. Roahn had run out of breath to scream for she had been hyperventilating so intensely. A beam of violent red cut diagonally across her foe's silver face, a fog straining her mind as her muscles screamed in protest.

"_No_…" she pathetically whispered as she could imagine the heat of the blade begin to rip at her body. "_No_…"

The blade still would not switch off even as it finally reached Roahn's visor. There was a slight grating noise, an emission of smoke, and microscopic sparks as fibrous shards of tempered glass were expelled into the air from the intense heat. Roahn's howl was swallowed by the sudden squeal of the blade biting into her helmet.

"_Warning, warning_," her suit's VI calmly alerted. "_Breach in sector one. Enivrons have been compromised—contaminants have been detected. Warning, warning_."

Fire erupted between the polished sheens of silver and blue. Heated cores within sunlight icebergs. Roahn felt a splinter of heat start to reach at her face.

But seconds after it had all started, it was over.

Momentarily lit alight from the glow of the superheated sparks, Aleph's grip suddenly slackened, releasing the quarian from his grip. Her omni-blade inexplicably now blinked into nothingness, a final gasp of relief. Roahn lay on her back upon the ground, shuddering, as Aleph stood back up and slowly walked away, back towards where he had left Vulkov's body. He turned his back to her, shunting her carelessly out of his mind, as if he was bored with her already.

"_Warning, warning_," the VI was still ringing in her suit.

Something was causing her eyes to blur in and out. There was a faint tickle in her lungs. Trying to focus as best as she could, Roahn could appraise a thin line cutting across her visor, nearly imperceptible, but deep enough to create a slight area of suction that violated her filtered atmosphere. She coughed, finding that to be alarming.

_Breach, breach_, she thought frantically. Aleph temporarily was of no concern in her mind right now. _The reaction's already starting_. _Seal it. Seal it up_.

Another cough. Her throat started to feel ragged. Bad sign.

Rolling on the ground, Roahn reached towards one of the pockets at the belt around her waist. She withdrew a tiny flat roll of gray gaffer tape from which she pulled off a strand about half a foot long. After cutting it loose she smashed the tape against the cut in her visor and used her fingers to press it down firmly to obtain a good seal.

Roahn listened to the wails of her suit.

"_Breach in sector one. Breach in sector one. Environs have been—" _There was a distinct pause_. "Breach repaired. Environs restoring to optimal levels. Foreign contaminants detected in respiratory airways. Allergic reaction has started. Recommend immediate treatment."_

She was spluttering now, clutching at her throat, vision partially obscured from the duct tape that covered a portion of her visor. Crawling on all fours, she made it over to one of the couches and used it to shakily get back to her feet. Her eyes felt red hot. They were now watering. She had to blink several times to clear them.

Aleph had seemed to carve a respectful amount of distance between Roahn and was now watching her intently. Behind him, Raucous edged forward, whimpering in agonizing impatience. After a wheezing Roahn had bent down to pick up her pistol from where it had fallen, Aleph looked down upon his pathetic minion before turning towards the quarian again.

"**He… remembers you**," Aleph said. "**And I can only control him for so long until his urges consume all logic in his mind. You may still have a part to play, so I'll ensure he doesn't kill you, but you will not escape pain. Perhaps this time he'll take a leg. Or… your other arm. If you're as determined as I believe you are, you'll find a way to overcome your fear so that you might live.**"

On unsteady legs, Roahn faltered in place, not understanding.

Aleph then took a step forward. "**Run**," he hissed, malevolence ablaze in his visor.

Lungs burning, Roahn bolted for the door.

Her shoulder throbbed as she knocked open the entrance and sprinted through the foyer towards the elevators. Now her throat was feeling like it was constricting. It was now effortful to suck in breaths. Behind her, Roahn could already hear the vicious scrape of metallic claws upon tile. Raucous had been unleashed.

She had to grab onto a corner as she rounded it, her feet skidding on the slick floor. The synthetic hissing and growling—an animalistic choir—surged into her ears frightfully. Roahn wanted to scream but could not muster a sound around a congested windpipe. She nearly collided with a low coffee table as she ran, forcing her to stutter-step for a second, losing valuable time and speed. Roahn clasped her pistol to her side for she was too addled to even use it. One hand was at her throat while she coughed and ran simultaneously.

The elevator bay loomed through her wobbling myopia, but none of the doors were opened to admit her. It was too late, there were no lifts for her to take and Raucous was too close. Her eyes scrambled around the hall, desperate to catch sight of an insert where she could take cover. No use, there were no other doors in her line of sight—Raucous had closed the gap all too well.

Looking back was a mistake. Raucous was tearing through the hallway, smashing aside the doors as if they were made of paper. Desks were overturned and aides were knocked aside, spilling datapads, coffee, and various adornments to the ground. Snarling and teeth gnashing, the quadrupedal cyborg roared through the building, hell-bent on tearing at Roahn limb from limb.

She could feel the memory of Raucous' bite on her arm. A flash of seeing her severed limb on the ground, bloodstained, a knob of bone—shockingly white—poking out from ragged flesh. The ghost of her left arm gave a throb of reminder.

Roahn faltered in the middle of the elevator bay until she spotted the window to her left, where a bevy of construction drones swarmed by in their duties. The catwalks! Yes, the building was undergoing repairs! Roahn unlocked her pistol from her holster, only seconds before Raucous could be upon her, and fired two shots at the window, blowing it outward in a hail of dust-like safety glass. Cold air hurtled in from outside, but Roahn had tucked in her shoulder and had mounted a charge at the cracked barrier, her heart feeling like it was beating ten times as fast while her chest tightened all around it.

Her feet were a blur as she sprinted towards the impromptu exit. Roahn barreled through the weakened glass and it shattered all around her in a clear blizzard as she entered open air. A chill pressed upon her enviro-suit, making her aware of her own heated temperature. With a gasp, she stumbled and fell onto the temporary metal floor, nearly letting go of her weapon. She rolled on her back, temporarily giving her a view of a clouded sky. As she got to her feet, she took a brief look down from where she was before recoiling back in a panic. She was still more than forty stories up off the ground—people looked like tiny insects down below. The construction catwalks did not even reach completely towards the bottom floor as they wrapped around one side of the building for only about ten stories further or so.

A cadre of construction drones, lights flashing upon their dish-like heads, suddenly orbited Roahn in an angry frenzy, blaring repeated warnings to leave the construction zone or else face legal repercussions. The quarian had bigger things to worry about; Raucous was standing amidst the shattered remains of the window, mewling in confusion. However, the cyborg's yellow incisions for optics found Roahn again and he carefully began to tread onto the catwalk. Roahn slowly backed up, coughing and spluttering, as the footway creaked and groaned.

In seconds, Raucous was fully onto the thin metal platform. His four feet began to sag the floor where he stood, but the structure held.

"Shit," Roahn gagged.

Raucous unleashed a hellish laugh before he pounced at Roahn again.

With a grunt, Roahn rolled to the left, off of the platform and tumbled in all directions as she fell one story down. She landed heavily on her side onto the catwalk below, drawing the wind from her with a startling wheeze. Above, Raucous smashed through plywood barriers and metal poles, dislodging part of the attached structure just over his head, showering the cyborg in debris. Roahn scrambled to her feet and ran in the opposite direction around the corner of the building, hopping over pipes and ducking protruding bars so that she would not trip or crack her visor any more open than it already was. To her side was a startling edge—there were no guardrails. She had to fight to keep her balance. Tears and mucus poured out of her eyes and nose. Half-blind and coughing up a storm, Roahn's body was battered and bruised as she smashed against column after column, clumsily making her way around the building with a murderous creature hot on her heels.

The ground shook under Roahn's feet, nearly throwing her off balance. She managed a cry as she knew that Raucous had jumped down to her level. The cyborg was barreling through the obstacles that the quarian had been meaning to avoid, not at all in the way impaired. The structure wobbled and began to list—Roahn looked over and saw, to her panic, that the bolts connecting the catwalks to the building were being sheared away from the violent force of the rampage. Her heels were starting to slip.

"_Shit, shit, shit!_" Roahn squeaked as she hopped down another level, this time landing on her feet, but there was a distinct grinding sensation of bone and she knew that her ankle had just snapped. Roahn howled again, her throat clearing just enough for this one evocative moment before she erupted in a spate of coughing once again. Blood misted her visor as something in her windpipe tore open. She clasped a hand to her chest, fighting to continue.

Raucous leaped down as the floor above them precariously tipped away, tumbling to the ground far below in a bizarre collage of metal and plywood. Construction drones buzzed around the head of the cyborg angrily, but Raucous lunged, teeth snapping, and caught one of the drones in his mouth. The edges of his teeth heated to a blistering temperature, glowing red with a silver center, and he bit the drone in half, the sparking pieces twitching on the ground at his sides. Raucous gave a few swipes to the other drones in his vicinity, catching two of them and knocking their repulsors offline so that they spiraled out of control before crashing upon the side of the building.

Roahn continued to limp forward, now unsure where her pain was being manifested from. Her whole body seemed to ache all at once, nearly bringing her mind to a standstill. She reached a ladder, now shaking from hearing Raucous' roars, and gingerly slid down it to the next floor. Tools and ripped pieces of piping rained down above her head. She looked up to see the triangular maw of Raucous staring down right above her, panting eagerly and preparing to pounce again. Curved claws grasped at the edge of the platform, nudging the first rung of the ladder while steam curled from the edges of the cyborg's mouth.

The quarian was not having any of it. Roahn yanked her pistol free and pointed it right at Raucous' face.

"I'm not easy prey," she spat as she pulled the trigger.

Raucous reeled back and reared his head as he screeched, yellow fluid spilling from his cracked left optic. The supporting beams of the construction structure seemed to rattle with the bellowing cry. The cyborg retched and coughed as thick conducting liquid poured from the fissure in the glass of his eye.

There was a window that lead into a lower elevator lobby right next to Roahn. Quickly she whirled and shot it out as well before diving through it like a madwoman. She slid across the desert granite floor along with a mass of glass pebbles, her injured ankle feeling like it had ballooned inside her boot. Her breathing was now at a whispering slither. Her mouth tasted of blood. She was seeing double.

She had made it halfway to the lift console from the window when Roahn heard an artificial groaning sound. Unable to conjure the strength to stand, she rolled over onto her back as she beheld the wounded Raucous standing feet away from her, golden liquid similar to plasma dripping off his jaw. The predator slowly stalked inside, taking the opening that Roahn had provided him. He was no longer charging at the quarian in a frenzy—he now seemed to regard her as a genuine threat, prey that had a fair amount of barbs to ensure that whatever fight would crop up that no one would emerge unscathed. The cyborg emitted a low whine of frustration, watching Roahn attempt to crawl away.

Roahn was nearly unable to breathe at this point. She had to lunge her entire body above her waist in a painful convulsion to force every breath into her lungs. The color in her eyes started to wash out. Her right arm curled tightly to her chest, spasms yanking her muscles taut.

The pad to call the lift was just a couple feet above her head. Limply, she tried to grope for it with her prosthesis. She made a pass—missed. Her eyes were focusing in the wrong place. She tried a second time—also a miss. Raucous was starting to creep forward again, sensing that Roahn was becoming more and more overtaken by her allergic reaction. He was seizing his moment to strike.

Whimpering, Roahn _heaved_ her entire body upwards to even _touch_ the panel… but her fingers uselessly scraped the side and slid right off. Exhausted, Roahn slumped against the wall, shuddering with her waning breaths. Crumpled, she curled into a fetal position, extremities numb, ankle swollen with heat and pain.

Seeing the wounded quarian poise herself for her defeat, Raucous uttered one more sinister chuckle, the side of his face coated and smeared with a translucent yellow-orange fluid. He lowered himself to the ground, his jagged tail waggling in the air, claws puncturing stone for a precise grip, bared his teeth and—

The doors to the lift opened. Raucous immediately swung his head to the right in alarm.

There was a puff of vapor and a translucent streak shot out from the lift, impacting squarely upon Raucous' torso. The cybernetic creature gave a yelp and was propelled all the way down the hall, smashing apart doors and desks as he skidded across the smooth tile.

Blearily, Roahn tried to open her eyes wider just as the smoking end of an assault rifle poked out from the elevator, its owner coming into view.

Garrus calmly strode out, Shepard right behind him, both touting their weapons. The under-barrel of Garrus' rifle wisped from where the concussive shot had been fired. Shepard had his own weapon locked in place against his shoulder, his eyes already aiming down the sights—old tricks could not be forgotten so easily.

"Sorry, was I interrupting?" Garrus called after the dazed Raucous.

The cyborg shakily got to his feet, multicolored bolts of electricity arcing around his joints and his head. He shook himself all over, dog-like, spraying liquid and bits of armor everywhere. Raucous was now sporting a slight limp on his front right leg—the housing there was cracked and leaking conductive fluid. His reptilian head surged in the direction of the turian and he gave an inhumane bellow… right before Garrus and Shepard opened fire.

The hall exploded with the rapid-fire reports of the two soldiers' weapons. Bullets pinged off of Raucous' armor but some impacted on precise areas, denting them and distorting the cyborg's shape. One round took a chunk off of one of Raucous' slanted ears, procuring more electrical arcs from the affected area.

Roahn shuddered from the noises the guns were making on her ears—it was sounding like a thunderstorm was choosing to erupt right next to her. She spasmed on the ground, coughing and spluttering, a trickle of blood now flowing freely from a nostril as everything started to take on translucent rainbow outlines while her entire body seemed to be travelling in slow-motion.

Raucous' head was nudged back from a well-placed shot, sending one of his teeth skidding across the ground. In his primitive mind, he had made the determination that enough was enough. He still held the wherewithal to figure out when was an appropriate time to flee. Frantically, he wheeled around, bullets impacting the floor all around him in dusty geysers, and galloped in the opposite direction, away from Garrus and Shepard. Several Alliance guards rounded the corner at the far end, drawn from the commotion, and straight into the path of the retreating cyborg. Raucous' momentum was great enough to prevent him from slowing completely—he barreled into the guards, who had all been stupidly grouped in a tight cluster, and took a pause in his retreat to tear every one of them apart. He pounced with jaws opened wide and claws spread upon his feet.

There was a whirlwind of silver, black, and crimson.

The walls and hall decorations in the vicinity were soon painted red with blood as Raucous went insane with violence. Razor claws slashed at the soldiers, slicing off limbs or disemboweling them in seconds. Sticky gore soon flowed and coated the tile. Raucous lunged forward and bit down hard, taking out chunks of flesh with every chomp. Viscera dripped from the remaining teeth in his mouth, thick and bloody colored so red it looked black. The cyborg gave an ecstatic sigh once he had messily killed the troopers in his vicinity, relieved at finally having killed something.

Shepard and Garrus continued to fire until Raucous came to his senses and finally rounded the corner, fleeing from sight for good. A haze of smoke billowed near the ceiling. Bullets pockmarked the walls. Splinters of furniture and shards of glass spilled across the ground. There was a sudden clatter as Garrus ejected a spent clip, the cylindrical object still glowing red as it rolled to a stop.

The shuddering sound by the elevator quickly regained Shepard's attention. He stumbled over to his fallen daughter, who by his observation, looked worse for the wear. With her duct-taped helmet, labored breathing, bedraggled appearance, and glazed eyes, she was in poor shape indeed. Quickly, he linked his omni-tool to hers to check on her suit's diagnosis.

Suit breach. Allergic reaction already taking hold. Roahn needed medical attention right away.

"Oh, honey…" Shepard whispered as he turned her over, his hands providing stability.

Roahn's shuddering gasps lingered, her pupils dilating as her body was being attacked from within. The last thing she saw before she passed out was her father's assuring face, lined with concern.

"_We're going to get you out of here_," she distantly heard before the next second transpired and then she heard nothing at all.

* * *

**A/N: I know Aleph has been appearing sparingly throughout this story so I realize it might be hard to pass judgment on whether he is an effective villain or not. He'll definitely be showing up more as we get closer to the end, but I'm interested to hear your thoughts on his overall presence in the story.**

**However, I will have to mention that the next chapter will be quite a bit delayed. Mostly because I will be leaving for a vacation out of the country next week and will not have any access to a computer to write at that time... not that I would want to write while I'm on vacation, anyway. And right after that, I have to deal with moving my things across the city from my current place which is never fun. Once those are behind me, I'll be able to get back to work and have the next chapter out as soon as I can.**

**Playlist:**

**Umbra v. Vulkov**  
**"Gehenna"**  
**Thomas Newman**  
**1917 (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Aleph Arrives/Vulkov's Death**  
**"Face Hugger"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Alien: Covenant (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Chase Through the Construction Zone (Raucous Theme Pt. I)**  
**"Cargo Lift"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Alien: Covenant (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	21. Chapter 21: Succumb and Suppress

"_We locked several important missions to be released later as DLC. If you want to understand what is going on in Mass Effect 3, we recommend you buy all downloadable content. No, there won't be a sale."_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_Sections of the cracked ground tumbled away in jagged pebbles as Roahn softly treaded up the hill. The air was stark blue and cloudless. The land here was baking hot, the hillside barren. Yet the basin behind her was filled with shrubs, pockmarked with hardy desert grass, and riddled with towering stone pillars weathered from erosion. An organic maze that was too random to have been made deliberate by an alien hand, yet unique enough to warrant curious appreciation._

_There was no helmet she wore to parallel the sounds of her breathing back to her. No enviro-suit that would otherwise restrict her movements. Roahn ascended the mountain suit-less, unbothered by the circumstances. She wore clothing that gently enveloped her frame and protected her from the beating rays of the sun: light pants, long-sleeved hiking jacket, tall boots. She took deep breaths, sucking down cold mountain air, the wind brushing gently at her hair as she continued to ascend._

_Roahn had no idea how long she had been walking. She had no idea when she had even started walking, for that matter. There had been only a solitary thought in her mind. No, not a thought. An instinct. One that kept her situated in her current direction._

_Her destination loomed up ahead. She had to reach the lip of the valley. To see what lay beyond the border. All notions of context were eliminated in her head. There was just this one task and nothing else weighing in her mind. For the first time in a long time, she felt free._

_Rannoch fell quiet all for her._

_It could have been anywhere from ten minutes to several hours until Roahn finally reached the rim of the valley. She had stuck to a sloping ridgeline where a natural path from channeled waterways had carved ridges into the ground—lingering echoes of a time when water was more abundant, when it had not been lost from the gradual heating of the planet. The temperature proceeded to drop the further she climbed. Roahn was not winded—her training with her father and with the Defenders had prepared her for cross-country excursions. She recalled her father telling her once that her mother was able to endure the length of entire missions before she would even need a sip of water. Whether that had been an exaggeration or not was a moot point by now—Roahn's endurance had matched the mark that had been set in her mind._

_By the time the sun was directly overhead, Roahn had reached the final ridge that marked the highest point of her journey. Roahn's boots left careful treads in the dusty ground behind her as she navigated her way through a narrow channel of boulders before she reached the edge of the vista._

_Her world beckoned._

_A bowl of green, the mountains a brown scar filled with clotting vegetation, rimmed a panorama. Tilled fields of fertile crops. Mist-soaked forests overflowing with fruit. Sun-dappled hills offering picture-perfect perspectives underneath the sun's direct line of sight. It was as if a giant hand had scratched out a nook in the planet and had sewn that ground with every type of plant imaginable. The prolificacy inherent within the valley was a nearly insurmountable thing for Roahn to process. A luxuriance of food like this could feed a quarter of the planet's population. There were still so many hidden paradises like this one that Roahn had yet to learn about. To see them with her own eyes was overwhelming as her mind tried to weight the gravidity of the produce at her people's control._

_Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Roahn knelt down as she took in the sight of the land before her. The gray skin of her face had been cooled from the repeated gusts of wind. Her two hands met atop her knees as she kept her balance._

"_**It is beautiful, isn't it?**__" a voice next to Roahn suddenly uttered._

_Roahn jumped back up to her feet in alarm. A shadow seemed like it had materialized out of thin air—a dark shape against the backdrop of light._

_Aleph stood upon the ledge, hands passively behind his back, the sun glinting off of his reflective helmet in a bevy of splintered rays. His cloak flapped behind him in an ambling manner, revealing more of the armored behemoth that it had previously hidden within its dark folds._

_The quarian instinctively reached at her side for a pistol that was not there. She did not flee outright as she did not sense any aggression from Aleph. Just a strange aura of serenity seemed to radiate from the armored man._

_Glowing eyes narrowed into slits, Roahn squared her stance, the wind threatening to take her off the edge. "What would you know of this world?" she angrily spat. "It's not for you."_

_Aleph considered this for a moment before nodding his head. "__**No, it's not**__." He then turned to Roahn, the movement almost somber. "__**But neither is it yours. Yet it will be soon. You only need to watch.**__"_

"_What do you mean?" Roahn hissed as she took a step forward. There was a distinct tug at her temples. The coming ache before a mounting pressure would spear at her forehead. "What are you talking about? Tell me what you mean!"_

_The visor of polycarbonate and silver Silaris grasped the enraged shape of the quarian, but slowly turned away in a deliberate attempt to evade her scathing questions. Roahn was dumbfounded as she found herself more alone than ever, trapped on this ledge with her silent antagonist._

_The ever-quiet being of Aleph resumed his baleful stare out towards the horizon, acting as if though Roahn did not exist. But the quarian's anger had merely been bolstered from this as she was just about to ignite her omni-sword and part the man's head from his shoulders when, off in the distance, a terrific thunderclap resounded, cracking the sky in two and shaking the ground once that a layer of dust leaped from the very earth in a nearly indiscernible outline._

_From beyond the ridged blanket of mountains many miles through the sunlit haze, a dollop of light brighter than the sun warmed the planet, shaped like a lightbulb. The glow grew brighter and brighter, the circumference of the sphere widening more and more, until its radiance was blotted out by a shockwave of dust and debris that had exploded from the epicenter. The clouded wave of destruction raced over the snowcapped mountains, over the clear-cut streams, and obliterated its way towards the valley…_

…_and towards the ledge where Roahn now stood._

"_What… have you done?" Roahn cried as she lowered herself to the ground, heart in her throat, too terrified to even flee._

"_**It is not my doing**__," Aleph calmly said even as supersonic bits of rock and debris punctured his robe and armor, tearing off strips of fabric and scratching at his helmet. A slow disintegration right in front of the quarian's eyes. "__**But it will transpire without my intervention**__."_

"_I don't…" Roahn helplessly shook her head. "I don't understand."_

_Aleph nodded one final time as he now looked upon the prone quarian once more. "__**I know. But I hope you will.**__"_

_The monumental swell of dust finally swallowed the sun as the approaching billow sucked out the air before it crashed upon the ridge. Drenched in darkness, Roahn could only stare as the windswept debris nicked and scoured more and more pieces off of Aleph, taking the man apart further and further with every second that passed by. One large flat rock severed Aleph's cape. Another punctured his chest, ripping open his armor. Two ridged stones nicked his helmet, tearing part of it off and leaving a gaping void._

"_**After all…"**_

_The onrushing vortex gave a pull and, in an instant, all of Aleph's armor was yanked clean off his person in a shattered and frenzied moment. What was left behind, however, was not an unfamiliar being that had been behind the armor this whole time. Instead, another quarian stood in Aleph's place, enviro-suit pristine, purpled sehni with cresting white waves rolling against one another, a visor of the same color obscuring two loving eyes behind it, neck and chest encrusted with brushed gold adornments._

_Roahn's mouth fell open._

"…_you still have a lot to lose," Tali uttered before the dark cloud consumed her whole._

_There was only a span of five seconds that Roahn was left alone on that ridge before the destruction came for her too._

"_M-Mom?" was her final confused squeak before the ripping winds sliced her skin from her face, pulling it away to reveal a bloody skull only nanoseconds before the force of the shockwave pulverized her bones to a powder._

* * *

Her eyes opened unceremoniously to unveil the previous darkness that had beset her vision. It was difficult for her eyes to adjust—the room was a tad bright. Perhaps that was just because she still needed time to get used to the level of illumination.

Roahn's body ached. It felt like sandpaper rubbing across the inside of her sockets every time she moved her eyes. There was a dismal and raw feeling in her throat that seemed to extend all the way to her lungs. There were cramps all over her joints, seemingly within her bones. A chill passed along her skin, causing her to unconsciously shiver.

Blearily, she tried turning her head. All that got her was a twinge in the neck. Roahn bit back a curse from the pain. It looked like moving was out. The quarian just had to relegate herself to her current position in order to take stock of her surroundings.

After a few moments, Roahn realized she was lying down on a not-so-comfortable bed, but it had decent lumbar support so she was not in any additional discomfort from her position. A smooth ceiling was the first thing that she noticed directly above her. To her right were some holographic panels displaying readouts of different body systems—a skeleton and several blown-out muscle sections were discernable on the screens. Roahn figured that those were her body parts that were being observed.

She gritted her teeth and was surprised to discover that, as she yawed her jaw, there was no helmet getting in the way of her movements. Now she was able to realize that she was completely suit-less. Strangely, she did not panic from this implication because, truth be told, it was difficult to fear lying around without an enviro-suit after all of the recent encounters that had laid their claim upon her body. Compared to those, Roahn felt serene right at this moment.

Roahn slowly sucked in a breath through her nostrils—slow enough to avoid scrounging up a flare of pain from deep within her respiratory system. As she did so, she flicked her gaze to the left and, to her surprise, beheld a human face behind a clear shield, his head enveloped in a sterile and plastic looking covering, one that extended to encase his entire body.

The quarian could not hold back a tired grin. "This isn't the afterlife," she croaked out, surprising herself with how dreadful her voice sounded—cracking and rusty. "They wouldn't let _you_ in."

"With an attitude like that, _you're_ not bound to gain admittance, either," Sam scoffed as he stood over her with a somewhat bemused expression on his face. Tiny readout tables were displayed across the interior of his own mask, bathing his face in reef-green light. "Sad to say, you're back on the _Menhir_, fully alive and recovering… despite your best efforts to the contrary."

Roahn tried to offer a rebuttal to answer the doctor but a lump caught in her throat, causing her to become possessed by wracking coughs, each one feeling like they were tearing her throat open. After they had subsided, Roahn flopped back onto the bed and gently caressed her neck, a pained look on her face.

"Sore throat?" Sam asked.

Roahn nodded.

"I'm not surprised," the doctor said. "With the type of exposure you received, I'm amazed you became conscious this quickly. Your body just doesn't know when to quit, Roahn."

"I almost did," Roahn mustered after taking an agonizing swallow, the lump boiling her esophagus as it traveled downward. "How… how bad…?"

"Apart from the usual bangs and scrapes, including a broken ankle that was fixed while you were out, you have moderate bruising to your lungs and esophagus," Sam recounted dispassionately. "Mostly that was incurred from the heavy medications I had to give you. Quarians don't exactly react all that well to bronchodilators, but I had no choice. You were nearly comatose when your father and Garrus brought you back to the _Menhir_. Not completely unconscious, but sort of in an in-between state. I had to inject you with high-acting steroids and antihistamines to control your body's immune system because it was in the process of going haywire. You also burst a blood vessel in your eye—either from the severity of your reaction or from coughing so hard—but that will heal all on its own. And I just have to ask, Roahn, are you planning on being interred in my care every so often as a running gag? Because I have to say, it gets old fast."

"This isn't on _purpose_, believe me," Roahn groaned as she tried to sit up, but Sam very gently placed a hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down onto the bed.

"Yeah, no. You're not leaving this room for at least a day. You probably shouldn't even try to sit up until a few hours have passed."

"I could countermand your orders," Roahn wheezed, but she did it with a mirthful glance. "I am your commander, after all."

"Feel free to," Sam shrugged. "But you'll leave me in a tricky situation where I have to explain to our captain why you collapsed three feet out the doorway of the med bay after improperly resting when your immune system was recently compromised. That just invites more paperwork. And I hate paperwork."

Roahn shook her head ever so slightly, enough not to draw out any more pain. "Maybe I _will_ rest for a little bit, if only to spare you the tiresome routine of procedure."

"I won't be the _only_ one who's appreciative of that," Sam said with a grateful nod as the door opened behind him.

Shepard appeared over Sam's shoulder, similarly dressed in a germ-free body suit the sickly light green color of a hospital couch. The doctor turned towards the older human, nodding in greeting before he readied to leave.

"She can talk for a little bit," he told Shepard, Roahn momentarily lost in the background. "God knows she has the strength for it. But if she asks you to remove your mask out of some familial recognition, don't indulge her. Her immune system probably couldn't take the stress."

"Got it," Shepard nodded as he patted Sam's arm. "Thank you for looking after her."

The doctor departed to leave the family alone for a bit. Shepard stepped forward and grabbed one of the chairs so that he was sitting next to Roahn's bed. His suit was not as advanced as Sam's—there were no mini-displays rimming the edges of his bubble-like helmet. He crossed a leg as he regarded his daughter, an almost-remorseful look flicking at the edges of his mouth.

"So…" he started, "here we are again."

Roahn closed her eyes as she flopped her head down onto her pillow, a hand tracing the outline of her jaw. "I'm not all that enthused about it either, trust me. _Keelah_, and I'm lying here without my mask on the ship. I bet the entire crew has seen my face by now."

"Actually, that's not true," Shepard said. "You were brought into the med bay with your suit still on. The doctor was kind enough to switch on the privacy glass so that no one could look in. He even set a holo-containment unit around your bed to reduce the risk of contamination. Essentially, you're still sequestered to the people that matter to you."

The quarian was relieved to hear that. Not that she would have been that upset had the circumstances warranted others seeing her face while her life was in the balance but there was just the perceived loss of control over such a choice that proved to weigh more heavily on her than the actual consequences.

Her father was still going on. "Sam told us that you're due to make a complete recovery within the next day. Like you've noticed, you're back on the _Menhir_, safe and secure."

"Are we still in Earth orbit?" Roahn asked.

"Yes and no. We docked at the Citadel a few hours ago."

"The Citadel?"

Shepard nodded. "The ship needed to stock back up on provisions and it was time for many of the crewmembers to cash in on their shore leave. The _Menhir's_ staying in drydock for a couple of days, waiting for you to recover mostly, but you'll have a chance to leave the ship with your friends and enjoy the station for a bit once you're ready."

"Huh," was all Roahn could say to that. A thought then hit her like a sack of bricks and she imagined herself sinking deeper into the bed. "The artifact… did…?"

"Gone," Shepard said. "Vulkov was also pronounced dead at the scene. Heard the coroners listed it as a fatal heart condition, but I know that was a bullshit diagnosis."

"It was," Roahn squirmed as she tried to lift her upper half off the bed, albeit with a fair amount of discomfort. "_Aleph_ killed the admiral. It wasn't a heart condition. I… I don't know what it was but he certainly did not die naturally."

The man's eyes grew dark and he leaned forward in his chair, a pensive yearning to understand engrained in his features. "You saw him? He was in that office?"

Roahn nearly forgot that neither her father nor Garrus had actually seen Aleph in that room standing over Vulkov's body. They had only arrived at the end to save her from Raucous' rampage. She chalked the temporary confusion up to her general disorientation at the moment but that certainly brought no comfort, considering her situation.

"He _did_ something to me," Roahn tried to recall as she lifted her prosthetic hand, flexing all three fingers upon it. "It was like my whole body tightened up, preventing me from moving. Every single muscle refused to obey my will—my nerves were breaking down. It… it wasn't biotics, dad. It was something else, but I know he was responsible for it. I think it was the same power that he used to kill Vulkov."

"No biotics?" Shepard mused. "You saw none of the telltale signs? None of the glow around the hands? The subtle muscle movements to direct the flow of energy?"

Roahn shook her head for every point. "He just… twisted his hand… and everything stopped. It felt like fire-hot insects were crawling in my brain, trying to crush my head. I… I felt…" Roahn clutched at her chest as she struggled to find the words. "I nearly lost myself to fear back there, dad. I don't know if I could have helped it but… every time I see him I just freeze up. I lose control. Forget how to think."

Shepard sat back and steepled his hands together, staring at his daughter all the while. He took Roahn's words and tumbled them end over end in his head, trying to put the pieces together for a puzzle that had not yet revealed its true shape.

"I don't want you chasing this man, Roahn," he finally said. "Not after all the pain he's been putting you through."

"But dad," Roahn protested, "Aleph must be—"

"I _know_ he's a threat," Shepard gently interrupted. "And I can see how important this is to you. But every time you've come into contact with him you've barely escaped with your life. Now he's also grabbed one of the Reaper artifacts right out from under our noses. Sooner or later, your luck will run out if you continue to pursue Aleph, Roahn. He might be able to be beaten, yes, but he's showed us he's too clever to allow us to ever get the upper hand. And… and I don't want you to be consumed by something that could ultimately destroy you. Not you. Not my daughter. That's the last thing you deserve."

"It may be too late for that," the quarian wistfully mused. "I can't just walk away from this, dad. It's too…"

"…personal?" Shepard finished, a grave look in his eyes.

Roahn waited for a moment before hesitantly nodding, as if she was ashamed to admit such a thing that would ordinarily be grounds for concern.

"He's out there," Roahn stared off into space. "Where no one can reach him. And all I can think about is that terrible fear. The fear of being hurt again… and I can't get rid of it. As much as I try to turn that fear into something else… anger, perhaps… nothing else comes through. I just don't think…"

Shepard did not say anything but simply leaned forward so that his gloved hand could take his daughter's bare one. He squeezed Roahn's hand gently, continuing to remain silent, for there was no need to speak. He had already broadcasted his understanding to her through the connection their dissimilar eyes held. To say it out loud would be a redundant effort.

"Dad?" Roahn asked after a while.

"Yes?"

Flashes of her dream seared back into her own eyes. Rapid-fire bursts as if they emitted from a machine gun.

"When you and mom were on the battlefield… did you ever notice if she was afraid?"

Shepard hung his head as he considered how he could answer that question.

"If she ever was afraid…" he started, "…then it was something I never noticed."

"Oh," Roahn felt her stomach sink at the notion that she had already failed some kind of threshold. "You mean that she always so brave? Like she was portrayed in the films?"

There was an opportunity for Shepard to show a glimpse of his glib side, but the memory of his wife proved to be more overpowering, keeping him soberly rooted in a distant ennui.

"I never noticed because I think _I_ was the one who was always the more afraid. She was just better at hiding it than I was."

* * *

_Morningtide_

A terrible scream ripped through the interior of the frigate, shaking the dust that had caked upon the coils of cabling that wrapped around the ceiling. The walls rippled with the sound, black and oily. Empty hallways echoed the cavernous bellows and roars, amplifying it to a horrifying degree.

The savage orange light from a supernova remnant warped the entire room at every angle. A deck that stretched to the stars while the ghostly void marked the headstone for a star that had detonated eons before anyone on the ship was ever a thought. The sanctum did not appear to have a window—it looked like a circular platform simply extended into open space. This was a cleverly orchestrated trick, as the platform itself was safe within the _Morningtide's_ atmosphere due to a transparent steel viewport that had been purified time and again to render itself almost invisible, making the viewer feel like the overwhelming crest of icy blackness would wash over them in a nanosecond.

In the center of the platform sat a complex piece of machinery—a harness essentially, and Raucous was being lowered into it.

The cyborg was wailing as an enormous crane was lowering him into the harness feet-first. Steel chains wrapped around the quadrupedal construction in an "X" shape, leaving his paws dangling. Yellow conducting fluid had dried on the side of his triangular face, making it look like Raucous had been weeping. He was not being moved without a struggle—the cyborg was thrashing in every direction from the pain that had been delivered unto him. One of his leg plates had been cracked and a carbon tube had sprung a leak near his neck, intermittently delivering a hiss of steam while sparks crackled at his collar.

The crane patiently dropped Raucous into his prison—the harness detected the cyborg's presence and several smooth plates moved upward to encase him above the shoulders within it. Magnetic locks clamped themselves around Raucous' paws, preventing him from moving. He was essentially now "standing" within the harness, though with his limbs supported at a forty-five degree angle so that he would not be able to exit without the crane's assistance. Raucous still thrashed and roared, filled with rage, mouth spitting fire and steel teeth.

Aleph stood by, watching as the crane lifted away, the now empty chains dangling from the hook. He slowly approached where Raucous struggled in his delirium, pained beyond craziness.

Stepping forward, Aleph raised a hand in the air and slowly made a circular motion with a finger. The _Morningtide's_ automated systems detected the gestured command and several turrets popped from the floor and the ceiling to ring around the platform, all aimed towards Raucous. The turrets all held moissanite-tipped spears, finely notched to inflict maximum damage. The spears were linked to the turrets by synthetic snap-proof cables. Aleph had always been confident that Raucous was under his complete control, but he was pragmatic enough to allow for any contingencies. The spears were one of the few projectiles that could penetrate Raucous' armor with ease and, if fired at a great velocity, could puncture right through his limbs instantaneously. Aleph had intended for these weapons to be the last line of defense in case Raucous ever went rogue out of blind rage, not that he was sure he ever would, but Aleph did not want to leave things to chance. The automated defenses would target Raucous and the spears would anchor the cyborg to the turrets, keeping him in place until he could let his anger burn out eventually.

So far, Aleph had never needed to utilize the system. The threat of its existence seemed to be a satisfactory deterrent—even Raucous seemed to realize the danger it presented to him at times and remained ever compliant under Aleph's watch. Raucous had attacked members of Aleph's crew on occasion as a result of his fury not being satiated in time, but he would never attack Aleph. As simple as he was, he would never lash out at his master.

Aleph slowly walked up and palmed one of the plates at the base of Raucous' neck. A great triangular section of the armor slid away, embedded sensors there recognizing Aleph through his touch. A translucent and milky covering had been placed over what looked like a red gelatinous mass underneath where the armor had parted. The reflective silver helmet dipped but did not linger at the sight of the cyborg's brain.

In one of Aleph's hands he held a large and thick mag-cable. He lifted it up and slowly slid the metallic rod that made up the point of the cable into the port in the center of Raucous' brain. Aleph twisted the cable once he had slid it all the way in, locking it, which caused an automatic flow of dopamine to surge itself directly into Raucous' nervous system.

Immediately Raucous stilled himself and made a few canine-like whimpers. Aleph remembered the sensation of such an immediate dopamine rush: it felt like chilled and molten mercury was slithering through every vein in your body, icy fingers grasping at the edges of your bone, paralyzing you as your agonies gradually departed. Raucous needed a greater volume of dopamine per minute to counter the damages incurred not just to his body, but to his very mind.

Aleph gave the sedate cyborg a gentle pat on the head, the only thoughtful gesture he ever made towards the quadruped. **"Old friend. I deserve all of your hate for I unintentionally set you on this path. Perhaps you will never understand why, though it is my greatest hope that you do even if it costs me your trust. This is not what I wanted for you. I cannot fix you, but I can ease you along as best as I can."**

Without another word, Aleph lifted his hand and touched a singular button on his omni-tool. In the next second, a matrix of vibrant recorded feeds—twenty-one in all—ignited in a tableau of electric wildfire in front of Raucous' face. The cyborg immediately honed in on these videos, his head swiveling to face straight on, and began making cooing noises, low and distant thrums that shook the harness trapping him. His animalistic body had finally ceased its struggling any was now gently shaking with a profound and horrendous sense of pleasure. His jaw slackened somewhat and Raucous was now gazing glass-eyed into the void that captivated him, pulling him ever deeper into a trance as Aleph turned up the volume to encase him into his mental prison.

The collective spurts of sound turned into one continuous wave of white noise. Aleph did not glance at what was being displayed, choosing instead to look upon Raucous and his distractions. While Raucous was rapt with attention at the films, tiny and precise instrumental arms rose up from the metallic harness and began setting to work at repairing the damage to the cyborg's armor. Streams of hot sparks soon fizzled into existence, splattering the ground at Aleph's feet.

Aleph turned only for a second to look upon the vids that Raucous was looking at. Every one of the screens was showcasing a violent or otherwise heinous act that would have deeply disturbed most anyone, except that Raucous was actually _enjoying_ watching these videos. The mix of audio channels was so overlapped it was tough to discern which belonged to which screen, but Raucous, as a cyborg, could muster past that without much effort.

Raucous was positively aglow with delight as he watched the carnage on the screens in front of him, his previous agonies slowly being forgotten. The snuff films blistered with an indescribable terror, an abstract disgust, and an intense sense of fading hope.

The snuff videos had been compiled from all across the galaxy all for Raucous' benefit. One was showing the brutal killing of a man in which his hands and feet were cut off, followed by his eyes, tongue, and the skin of his face. Another was showcasing the sadistic rape of a woman while her neck was being broken. Then there was one showing the aftermath of a still-alive asari who had burst her head apart after diving unintentionally into a shallow river. There was also one showing the beating of a turian by several hoodlums with hammers. Many other screens showed particularly graphic decapitations. Blood was plentiful in the emblazoned images. That, and pain. Plenty of pain.

If the dopamine was the relaxant that caused Raucous' mind to heal, then the videos were the finishing touch. Raucous was incredibly single-minded in that he could only concentrate on a few things at a time. His entire world was death and violence. The films helped ease him back into that world in which he was comfortable. It projected the illusion that he was among the death and disease and otherwise repugnance that the galaxy had to offer.

To others, staring upon the screens would be a cruelty. For Raucous, it was a kindness.

Aleph considered Raucous one more time before he finally walked out of the room. The adjacent corridor was thin and dimly lit, the shadows cradling him as he walked deeper into the structure. As he proceeded onwards, Aleph could only sadly reflect on the damaged mind of his friend, now turned into a mindless beast. Raucous had once been in a promising position—he had been a prime candidate for a cybernetic transfer only for a clumsy doctor to damage the brain during the implementation! That was not to say that the transfer was going to be seamless, as Raucous' organic body had been heavily damaged prior to that which necessitated the transfer in the first place, but mishandling his brain had been the final straw for a being who had been through hell and back. Once Raucous had been fully completed, Aleph had killed the idiot doctor with his bare hands, breaking his back in several places before stomping on his head. It was an act that could do nothing to better Raucous' situation but it would serve its effectiveness for Aleph's conscience.

Which, in this case, was equally important in Aleph's mind.

The filtered air was clear of dust, the black slate tiles of the floor spotless, leaving only Aleph as the sole contaminant travelling through the _Morningtide's_ arteries. He traversed the labyrinth of halls before finally arriving at the great hall. The towering windows beckoned one to step up and to see the fields of scattered stars and nebulae. The Monolith, nearly hidden in shadow, patiently sat upon the rightmost corner of the dais, anticipating an approaching presence.

The Cardinal was seated in front of the steps, her four skeletal arms all tapping at individual displays that seemed to orbit around her body like an incomplete halo. Her head, glittering with blue light, looked upward as soon as Aleph entered, shutting all of the feeds down around her to prove that he had her undivided attention.

"My lord," the Cardinal groveled, bending over in a bow as Aleph came up to her only to stride up the steps without a glance in her direction.

"**Provide your latest report**," Aleph said as he moved to stand in front of the Monolith, his arms gently behind his back as he considered his handiwork.

If the Cardinal was distressed by Aleph's deliberate distancing, it was impossible for her to show it. Inside that bone-colored chassis, the being that was the Cardinal was silently weeping in disappointment.

"I have commissioned thirty-five additional pairings to proceed in order to obtain the DNA you require," the Cardinal said, her voice smooth and gliding without letting her internal conflict register. "Sequencing can commence once I have fully synthesized the composited DNA."

"**And the DNA conglomerate itself?"** Aleph asked, still staring intently at the Monolith. "**What is the last recorded threshold for what we have already compiled?**"

There was an uncomfortable pause as the Cardinal did some silent debating. "The last level the conglomerate was recorded to have was at 72%," she said. When Aleph did not immediately respond, she took a tender step forward, the tips of her slender toes touching the bottom step to the upper platform, but not daring to proceed any further. "My lord… even with the volume of hosts we have amassed to obtain the DNA you need for the integration, each genetic sample has generated returns so miniscule that we will require an inordinate number of organics to complete the sequencing. With such diminishing returns, perhaps 72% is adequate—"

"**It is not**," Aleph's voice was quiet but the words were terrifying enough to causing the Cardinal to drop to her knees in despair.

"My lord… I apologize, I meant no disrespect, but I only—"

Aleph turned away from the Monolith to ascend the steps downwards, towards the Cardinal. The lesser cyborg was now quaking fearfully as her master approached, his outline drowning out the stars that glimmered in his wake.

"**Everything I have withstood, everything I have cultivated, is all contingent on the necessity to proceed only when all the condition have been met. A 72% efficiency rate is not enough, Cardinal. Nor is an 80% efficiency. Or 90%. I will not accept anything lower than complete and total compatibility with the Monolith. It must be adaptable to all forms of DNA in the galaxy otherwise I will not proceed. But it can reach that threshold. It is certainly possible."**

The Cardinal's limbs shook as she raised them in a posture of mercy. "Yet… after all my experiments… there still remains a significant gap in that compatibility, my lord. How… how can you know there is a way to close that gap?"

"**Because**," Aleph now raised his head, not directly looking at the Cardinal, "**such DNA integrations were carried out successfully every 50,000 years. It is not a matter of how, but a matter of when. Do not trouble yourself with trying to close a gap so significant, Cardinal. For I believe I know what we lack that would allow us to finalize that threshold and attain the synergy required.**"

"You… you do? But when did you find that out?"

The polished surface of the helmet hideously perverted the Cardinal's image as Aleph looked upon her with an unknowable emotion.

"**Mere hours ago**."

* * *

_Dock 184__  
The Citadel_

The familiar surroundings of the Citadel docks went largely unnoticed by Roahn as she tenderly made her way down the ramp, across the bridge that acted as the lone span between the superstructure and space, and forward into arrival processing. The Defender ensign manning the desk looked bored—he was essentially responsible for coordinating the smooth transition of thousands of people into the station every solar day, meaning that Roahn would just be another face in the crowd to him. She passed through the security checkpoints without much incident. The electronic scanners embedded in the hall were designed to cross-check her weapon IDs with her own, essentially making sure that she was not smuggling in illicit weaponry. No pings went off, ensuring her access to the Citadel.

She kept moving without breaking stride.

Garrus, Skye, Korridon, and Sam were all waiting for at the other end. The neon lifestyle of the station's glamorous Coraltide Vein, one of the more boutique sections of the Citadel, blazed behind them all. Garrus walked over and gently clasped Roahn's shoulder as she approached the quartet, nodding in approval.

"Glad to see you're up and about," he told her. "You took a nasty hit back there. Any side effects?"

Roahn tapped at the side of her helmet. "A little congestion," she admitted. "Throat still feels a little raw but I'm coming back nicely, all things considered."

"You'll have some time to heal further. I've mandated that the crew gets two solar days of shore leave on the Citadel starting now."

Roahn tilted her head. "Heard my father mention something about shore leave, but I haven't really processed it. We have time off already?"

Garrus laughed. "Roahn, we've been out on our mission for a couple months now. We've gone through several campaigns without a firmly set break in between. Plus, if I don't give everyone some time to spend their paychecks I'll have a riot on my hands."

Roahn's head swam as she struggled to comprehend that it had been weeks and weeks since she had joined Umbra Team and, as Garrus had just said, already participated in several boots-on-the-ground missions. Of course, it was her wont to declare that shore leave was merely a distraction from pursuing their main objectives, but Roahn was cognizant enough to know that the rest of the crew probably desired this shore leave a whole lot more than she did. If anything, she was just going to have to bite her tongue and go with the flow.

"And I don't think that riot control was stated in my job description," she murmured blithely.

Garrus could also be an empath in certain times and he lowered his head closer to Roahn. "I know you're itching to get back in the fight, but you're no use to any of us tired or wounded. Take the time off, relax, and come back here refreshed and ready to fight. Think you can do that?"

"Without a doubt, Garrus."

"Good," the turian clapped Roahn on the back. "Go have fun." As he watched Roahn leave, he then looked over at Sam standing beside him. "The number of knocks she's taken… I'm amazed she's still standing."

"She's stubborn," Sam observed. "I don't think she likes to admit when she's been hurt."

"She could push herself too far," Garrus worried.

"You're keeping a good eye on her. She has the right people looking after her. We'll be able to tell when she's about to burn herself out."

"But will we be able to stop her?" When Sam pulled a face and made a shrug, Garrus made a grumbling sound of unease before flaring his mandibles and clearing his throat. He was about to say something to the doctor when, in the next second, he thought he saw a flash of a familiar face through the crowd just ahead. It had been a split second but Garrus could have sworn he had seen a warm and welcome face, large and shadowed amber eyes under a draping hood. But the moment passed at the turian was left blinking in confusion, as if a sudden warm wave had come upon him leaving him parched and aching.

"See something, Garrus?" Sam tilted his head, noticing the turian's distant look.

A minute shake of the head. "I… I thought I did." He turned back over to Sam. "So, what are your plans for your shore leave? I don't think trying to brew ethanol in the med bay constitutes as a good time budget, but that's just my opinion."

"Har… har…" Sam drawled. "That was just one time and it was only for fun. No, my wife's visiting our apartment on the station for the couple of days we're here. I plan on going straight over and I'm going to bed with her the first chance I get. That detailed enough for you?"

Garrus rolled his eyes. "Quite."

"Indeed, but she's not the only one who came up to visit."

The doctor pointed down to where Roahn had congregated amongst Skye and Korridon, only now a new face had joined the small crowd. Like Roahn, she was also a quarian, but perhaps a centimeter or two taller. The color of her visor and _sehni_ was a dusty golden hue, almost like a cornfield under a cloudy sky. The rest of her enviro-suit was the same shape and model as Roahn's. The two quarians had immediately hugged upon seeing one another, obviously having met beforehand. Skye and Korridon respectfully edged away a step, not wanting to intrude on the reunion.

"What are you _doing_ here?!" Roahn gasped in delight as she broke away to look at her dear friend Taylor'McLeod.

Taylor's eyes lidded upward in the only way a quarian could possibly indicate to the fullest that they were smiling. "Dad told me you guys were coming over here. I had some time off work so I figured I should say hello. Mom gave me a lift over here."

Roahn's hands were still being held by Taylor. The other quarian could undoubtedly feel that one of Roahn's hands was significantly different in terms of feel and weight. Roahn braced herself for a comment of surprise towards her newest bodily addition but that did not come to pass. Taylor instead looked down at Roahn's prosthesis, studied it in curiosity, and quickly moved her head to look right back at her, her interest satiated. Roahn had to fight to hold in her gasp of relief, moved by the other quarian's mindset to treat everything as normally as possible. Only Taylor would realize just how much Roahn would treasure this moment—she could feel it through their grip.

The two shared their veiled smiles with the other, interrupted only when Sam sidled past the group to give Taylor a tap on the shoulder.

"Hi, dad," Taylor greeted warmly as she released Roahn's hands so she could hug her father. Roahn watched the two from afar, mixed feelings of joy and envy swirling within her in a torturous dance.

"Hi, honey," Sam said, wrapped in his daughter's embrace. "It's nice to see you, if only briefly. Got a fun night in mind with your friends?"

"I certainly think so."

"I won't keep you," Sam lifted a smirk at Taylor but bobbed his eyebrows once at Roahn. "They're going to need all the free time they can get. But give me a call and we'll have breakfast together before I leave."

"It's a deal," Taylor said earnestly.

Sam's fingers dropped from Taylor's hands and his smile turned melancholy, obviously wishing that his personal time with his family could start right now. "Love you, Taylor."

"Love you, dad," Taylor waved without a hint of embarrassment as Sam returned the gesture before departing.

Roahn always had a longing feeling reside in her chest every time she saw Sam together with his daughter. They shared such a natural relationship together in that they could spare a few words and convey all that needed to be said in such a short amount of time. Add to the fact that Taylor had a complete family and Roahn could not help but yearn for the other part of her life that was missing.

But Taylor quickly swiveled back over to Roahn, bouncing on the tips of her toes. "I want to hear everything that you've been up to," Taylor said in excitement. "Your adventures. All of it."

"Let's wait on that for now," Roahn gave a quick and breathy laugh. "I'd rather just relax for a bit before I get into any of that."

"Then you've come to the right place," Taylor lifted a hand to gesture to the breadth of the shopping center. "Coraltide's got the best shops and bars on this arm."

"The bar certainly sounds like a good place to start," Skye piped up for the first time. "But I _could_ be tempted to window shop."

Taylor glanced over at the human in confusion for a second before Roahn stepped up to extend a hand—palm up—towards the red-haired woman. "I'm an idiot. I forgot to introduce you guys." Roahn nodded first to the human as she placed a hand on Taylor's back. "This is Skye. We go back to our Defender days."

"How's it going?" Skye grinned as she pumped Taylor's hand vigorously, nearly shaking it out of the quarian's socket.

"And this is Korridon, our engineer." Roahn helped pry Taylor away from Skye so that she could introduce the turian.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," the turian politely said as he shook the quarian's hand with a considerately less amount of fervor compared to his human counterpart.

After finishing with the handshakes, Taylor put her hands on her hips as she considered everyone. "Ah, but it is so good to finally be able to put names to faces! Roahn's told me a little about you guys already, but I know there's a lot that I'm missing. Still, the three of you are soldiers under _Garrus Vakarian_. Now that's an honor. You know, I met him once when I was about ten. He came into my house, actually. With my father."

"Oh, really?" Skye arched an eyebrow, interested. "I bet you must have been excited. What was the occasion for meeting him?"

"Well…" Taylor took a mirthful look at Roahn, the two quarians sharing one of those nearly invisible but tangible stares that contained many emotions undetectable to most aliens. "It's a long story, but the funny thing was that it was the same day that I met _this_ one here." She threw an arm around Roahn's shoulders and the two women came together in a shared one-armed hug. "I'd say she's made more of a lasting impression, believe it or not."

Skye flashed a smug grin. "She certainly has that capability, no doubt."

Roahn rolled her eyes. Leave it to Skye to make such thinly veiled comments.

It was a good thing that Taylor remained clueless to the implications that the human was referring to. She beckoned the trio to follow her with a slender finger, finally prying them all towards the glittering avenue that promised lights, booze, and degenerate advertising all wrapped up in a single package.

"First time on this part of the station?"

Skye and Korridon shook their heads. Roahn was the only one who nodded.

"I have some ideas of places you might like," Taylor said. "Shall we take a look?"

* * *

It turned out that Taylor's intuition was highly accurate. She had led the group on a slowly meandering route through Coraltide that brushed up against some of the glitziest stores the Citadel had to offer. And it was not just clothes or jewelry that was being displayed but rather a pure spectacle of the entirety excess could generate. Gourmet food shops, sleek electronics, even boutique gun shops comprised sections of the storefronts that the four passed by, though not without longing looks.

Despite Skye's initial insistence that they all head straight to a drinking establishment to become coddled by the familiar blanket of an alcoholic buzz, she could not help but become distracted as she took in various views through glass casings at any items that had an implicit demand to be put under her ownership. The rest of the group was in the same boat, particularly when it came to the weaponry stores.

Despite the fact that Roahn and Skye were the only craftsmen in the realm of soldiery amongst the group, Korridon and Taylor were not blind to the allure that the shining racks of guns presented. If anything, their interest had spiked to similar levels.

Gun manufacturers had certainly done well for themselves after the war. Demand had risen drastically over the years as it seemed obvious to every household that having a gun at hand was probably a good idea. Never know when a crazed victim of indoctrination could come knocking at their door, despite the improbable nature of such a scenario.

Still, it was hard for everyone to tear their eyes away from the towering racks of platinum-barreled shotguns, the hanging gardens of the latest sniper rifles with the most advanced motion tracking software built in, the rotating displays of pistols from the boxy and utilitarian krogan Quartermaster to the elliptic and stark asari Inoculum, and the very walls of many of these shops which used the space to store each and every assault rifle and machine gun they had on the market which came at every price point to reflect an echelon for every customer's expense.

The point was, it was difficult to justify taking a straight route to the bar when such treasures were in their proximity.

Both Roahn and Skye would be swayed by their temptations as they had gone in and had bought a weapon for themselves. Any operator under Umbra was paid quite handsomely, considering that the Council was funding the group directly. Roahn, in particular, got a rather hefty cut as XO—her careful spending habits meant that she had amassed quite a large chunk of credits for her to use on purchases such as this.

Thirty minutes later and Roahn was walking out with the new Mistral, the latest pistol model from the Browning-Springfield Armories on Earth. The grip was a stiff polymer, comfortable enough to fit into her hand, and the polished carbon barrel was lower down on the gun's axis, making it simpler for Roahn to line it up with her eye. Light and accurate, the Mistral had been rapidly adopted by several militaries and were all reporting pleasing results. Roahn had wanted her hands on one for months.

Skye came out of another shop, this time touting a turian sniper rifle, the Cavalcade. The contours were not as angular as most turian models as this one was rather squat and stocky, but the gun itself had an impressive firing range and had proven itself to be quite reliable on the battlefield.

They rejoined Taylor and Korridon, the latter having taken the time to purchase a few electronic upgrades to his omni-tool from a nearby vendor. Taylor led the now-satiated group towards a part of the avenue that gradually became more and more dominated by restaurants, indicating that this was the right place to search for somewhere to get a drink. But instead of following Taylor into one of the establishments that was prominently displayed upon the boulevard, the quarian led them down a winding alley that otherwise conveyed no signage that would indicate that they were headed towards a bar of any sort. Yet, despite the lack of information, after a few turns a craftwork display of hanging lights in the shape of a red arrow pointed towards an innocuous door at the end of the alley. A single sign that read "INDUSTRIE DRAFT" hung over the door. Actual physical letters, not holograms.

Upon entering, Roahn's visor adjusted to let her see easily in the darkness of Industrie Draft. There was a sense of the bohemian that enveloped the guts of this bar. The walls were lined with a material that resembled brick. The floor was deliberately cheap panel wood. The chair were constructed out of flimsy aluminum, as well as the tables. Neon tubing wrapped around the actual bar area, which was a pill-shaped section in the middle of the bar, searing every color in agonizing hues.

Despite its ramshackle appearance and tucked-away entrance, Industrie Draft apparently was a very popular place as a good portion of the establishment was filled with a sea of drunken visages. A comfortable throng of people in the far corner swayed in a torrid beat to the latest techno music that was being pumped through the overhead speakers. Bartenders surged from patron to patron, expertly juggling glasses and ingredients as they piled on the orders from people desperate to stray from sobriety.

In no place was this bar quiet, but Roahn found herself relax nonetheless. Now this was a type of craziness she could be herself in.

"How the hell did you find this place?" Skye shouted to Taylor, having to raise her voice to even be heard.

Taylor just shrugged. "You just have to know where it is."

"Interesting. What do they have to drink?"

"Anything you want. All the drinks are custom."

Korridon swiveled his head around. "You're kidding. How does that work?"

"The bartender asks what your favorite spirit is and what you're in the mood for. They then craft you a drink based off what you tell them, basically."

With that information, the four then gradually pushed their way to the counter, trying to edge their way as politely as possible through the patrons either waiting for their drinks or watching one of the games on the overhead screens. Roahn got their first and was met by a smiling blond human woman, who proceeded to interrogate her about her spirit of choice, just as Taylor had said.

Roahn was in the mood for something hard-hitting and sour, so she indicated that she had a preference for a certain turian grain alcohol comparable to human bourbon. The bartender immediately whipped out a fresh glass, a shaker, and a strainer before proceeding to whip out a bulbous fruit before it was sliced in half. She then used a juicer to crush the tangy liquid from the fruit, collecting it in a cup. That was then poured into the shaker along with her base as well as a couple additional alcohols—complementary flavorings—before it was clattered in the air like a percussion instrument. The resulting concoction was then strained into a glass filled with crushed ice, all completed in less than a minute. A garnish comprised of the twisted fruit peel added a colorful splash to the drink.

Impressed, Roahn tapped out a sizeable tip with her credit chit before closing out her tab. She grabbed her drink and then ducked through the crowd to find a table. She found one somewhat close to the dance floor, where the music was not quite at overpowering levels. There were no chairs, though. Standing room only. Taylor soon found her as she touted her own drink, followed in short order by Korridon, and finally Skye.

Everyone took tastings of their drinks, finding them all to be in line with what they ordered. Roahn's was especially strong and there was already a noticeable swaying sensation in her head after she had consumed a quarter of her glass. Skye was in an even worse state, as she practically chugged more than half of hers, not bothering to savor it, and was soon uproariously laughing at multiple beats during the conversation.

_She's drunk already_, Roahn noted as she took a careful sip through her straw, a reminder for her to slow her intake a bit so that she would not turn out like her friend.

"Before I forget," Roahn said loudly, "Taylor, how are things going at your job?"

Taylor took a large gulp of her drink, something quite fruity looking, before she responded. "The work itself is mundane but the bigger picture is so much more exciting. I don't know if dad mentioned it to you yet, but I'm working in a city called Milan. It's a beautiful place that is in a pretty old human metropolis. It's only a few hours away from the beach—the views are fantastic! But I'm running a lab that's working on imaging infectious cells—government contracted, actually. We're working on developing and improving natural biologic resistances for toxic substances."

"Classified work?" Roahn took a sip.

"Most definitely. At least, the specific substances we're trying to counteract are what's classified."

"Good. Wouldn't want you to get into any trouble by letting something slip to us."

"Which I'm sure you're quite familiar with," Taylor looked particularly smug as she took a step away to broadly take stock of her friend. "Being part of the most elite crew since the _Normandy_ probably comes with its own share of secrecy."

Roahn flushed behind her mask. The symptoms of hero worship had proved to stray far from going to her head, but it was a whole other deal when one of her best friends had succumbed to it. She had tried for as long as she had known Taylor to downplay her prestigious heritage in an attempt to seem like an ordinary kid. Taylor had not been hiding under a rock—she knew exactly who Roahn was the very instant she had met her, but that had been quickly discarded to the wayside as she had found friendship to be more valuable than Roahn's so-called "celebrity." Roahn had appreciated that sort of consideration which was why Taylor caught on quickly that she was close to slipping up by becoming a bit too effusive right now. Drink and the company of strangers had the tendency to loosen anyone's tongue.

"So," Taylor jutted back in hastily, "is there anything that you are able to tell me, Roahn? Last I heard you were starting to get into a rhythm of smashing PMC groups. I mean… you _look_ good, so you've obviously have seen success."

_Clearly you didn't see me earlier today when I was lying in the med bay_, Roahn thought to herself humorously.

Oh, but there was _such_ a temptation for Roahn to just blurt out everything she knew since working with Umbra. Aleph, his vicious team, the Reaper artifacts, all seemed to overshadow her initial and paltry mandate for going after such small change like PMC death squads. Indulging Taylor's curiosity would definitely feel rewarding, surely. But Roahn held her tongue. There were still several layers to the whole scheme that she knew that she did not understand, therefore Taylor would not as well. Besides, what good would telling her about Aleph do anyway apart from elicit feelings of panic? Not the best way to spend a night like this, she knew. To be fair, she was in a bar to _escape_ such feelings anyway.

"I think we're all starting to gel well in combat together," Roahn said carefully, flashing strobes now starting to appear around her head, making it look like her entire body was backlit. "Haven't had any catastrophic moments thus far, so I'd say that we've got a good start. Still, there are many ways we can improve, but once we get to that level, I'll be interested to see what we can tackle."

Taylor nodded, managing to detect Roahn's slight evasion but she did not press further, taking the hint. Skye then took this moment to lean forward, her center of gravity slightly askew, as she moved closer to the yellow-suited quarian in interest.

"You were saying earlier that you met this one," the human gave Roahn's arm a forceful nudge with her elbow (Roahn had to rub the afflicted area once the shadows came over her), "when Garrus was over at your house. And, I'm sorry, but… why did that happen again? I just… I never would have guessed that's how you two would have met."

Both quarians glanced at each other. Roahn allowed a small shrug—permission for Taylor to proceed.

"Roahn and her father were on the run from a PMC many years ago," Taylor turned back to face Skye. "They needed to take refuge somewhere that they figured was safe. Garrus knew my dad because he received an operation from him sometime before that. He sort of forced my dad to take him and Shepard's family to our house on Earth."

"Through smooth talking or at gunpoint?" Skye smirked.

"Never asked, actually. But you could imagine my surprise when I wake up one morning and I find several people that I've only seen in the vids now in my living room. My mom was just as surprised—dropped a glass in shock, if I recall. But then I saw, way in the back behind everyone, this girl. Same age as me, same height. She looked so shy and so confused. And, honestly it's rare to see quarians on Earth at any rate. I think that the only other quarian in the city besides me at the time was my mother. So obviously I focused on her the most once I noticed her."

"And this would be Roahn?"

"Who else?" Roahn shot back through a small smile.

Taylor bobbed her head eagerly. "I showed her around my room and we talked for a few hours. We traded omni-tool addresses so that we could stay in touch afterward and… well, we haven't really stopped talking ever since."

There was a definite lull in the conversation as all four proceeded to take further draughts. Skye in particular drained the rest of her drink while everyone else still had a healthy portion left to go.

"Now," Taylor continued as she looked at Skye, who was beginning to turn slightly glassy-eyed as the potency of her drink was already starting to wallop her, "you said you met Roahn prior to joining her team? In the Defenders, did I hear that right?"

The human slowly proceeded to give a lopsided grin. _Oh no, here we go_, Roahn thought in alarm, standing ramrod straight with bated breath.

"Boot camp," Skye affirmed. "Obstacle course week. Our prelude to the Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape program."

"Ah," Taylor bobbed her head. "You mean SERE? I've heard of that."

"'See-ree,'" Skye corrected. "Not 'sear.' For some reason, a lot of civilians mispronounce that."

"Oh," Taylor drooped, slightly abashed.

"You're not the first to mix that up, don't worry. But the whole week was nothing but constant team-building exercises designed to build our rapport with our comrades and what not. Of course we were all cocky idiots back then, thinking that we didn't need anyone else to complete the courses. So one day, we get set onto one of the trails like usual. I'm ahead of the pack, doing amazing, as always…"

Roahn was slowly slouching more and more towards the table, flustered yet amused by the sureness of the human's braggadocio. She could just as well deactivate her audio receptors so that she would not have to listen to any more of this, but she knew the temptation to hear every word would just be too much for her to resist.

"…I'm on this log bridge, okay? Under fire from the trainers—they're using stun rounds, you see, to try and throw us off balance. Anyway, I make it through this next section and I find myself in a defilade with a quarian. Fake mortars are going off around us, so it's like we're on a battlefield. We're filthy, covered in mud, and this quarian is just staring at me, eyes open wide. She's like, 'What are we going to do?' and I say to her, 'Be calm. I have a plan. I'm going to draw their fire and you're going to hang right on my—'"

"Wait. Wait. Wait, wait, wait," Roahn interjected, waving a hand and shaking her head at the same time, unable to restrain herself. Her veiled expression was a mixture of disgust and exasperation. "That's not what happened. That's not at all what happened. If you're going to tell the damn story, tell it right, Skye."

Skye smirked before resuming, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Oh, all right. So… Roahn here was in this hole—_paralytic_ with fear—but I wasn't going to leave anyone behind. I slung her over my shoulders in a fireman's carry and together we got out of that hot zone—"

"Idiot." Roahn thwacked Skye on the arm with a finger.

Skye was now openly laughing as she kept on edging further and further away, trying to avoid Roahn's attacks. She was still maintaining eye contact with Taylor the whole time while she spoke. "I might be embellishing a few parts, if only to relay the situation for when Roahn fell head-over-heels for me that day."

Now Roahn was in full-on defensive mode as she lightly cuffed the side of Skye's head with her right arm, cheeks furiously red behind her visor. Clearly alcohol and tact could not coexist together within the person that was Skye Lorne. This was doubly embarrassing, not because of Skye's blatant fabrications, but from the revelation to Taylor that she had been somewhat romantically involved with the human at one point. That was something that Roahn would rather have not approached, partly due to the timing being completely inappropriate, but because that revisiting it would dredge up sour memories that Roahn would rather leave alone.

Yet, despite all that, Roahn still retained an expansive comprehension that did necessarily render part of Skye's exultations to be true.

Because at one point, Roahn _had_ fallen head-over-heels for Skye. Cocksure and full of swagger, there had been something inherently hypnotic about the woman that embodied a unique allure, pulling Roahn into a torrid spell.

The very same spell that she realized was gripping her right now.

It hit her like a cold pulse from her heart, surging to her very extremities. The teasing comments, the natural amusement, all of was derived from spontaneous and heartfelt emotions that did not at all indicate her initial declarations of refusal and revulsion.

By the Ancestors, Roahn was actually getting comfortable around Skye again.

Easy thought it might have been to verbally deny such a feeling, Roahn knew that saying such a thing would not make it true. For the evidence seemed quite clear—she was slowly gravitating more and more towards this woman again. Was it her changed attitude? Her promises to be more respectful? Or was it simply that smile? That damnable smile. The one that very well hinted that Skye carried a secret and that she just might let you in on it if you played her little games.

_Damn her_, Roahn thought miserably. _Why can I not stop thinking of you?_

Their tumultuous past should have been a barricade, a further impediment towards any emotional development. Or so Roahn might have thought. Either Skye had proven to be very resilient in taking up residence in Roahn's mind, picking apart the blockade piece by piece, or Roahn herself had been dismantling such defenses without ever realizing it.

After all, their last relationship had ended disastrously. Who was to say things would turn out differently a second time? Or had there honestly been a mistake the first go-around and this was just a sign from the universe that a second chance was now on the table?

While Roahn was lost in her self-torment, Taylor had splayed her hands on the table, squinting as she was trying to weigh Skye's words in her head. "Oh, so you're saying that you two used to be together when you were in the Defenders?"

Skye, now uncharacteristically quiet, turned to Roahn to let her complete the affirmation now that her stature had been called into question. _There was that maddening smile on her face again._

Roahn narrowed her eyes at the human, hoping that she would get the message of discontent before finally nodding back to Taylor. "Yeah. For some of the time," she said, hoping that would be diplomatic enough to satisfy her friend's curiosity.

_Okay. Can we stop asking questions about this now? Please?_

"Does that mean, since you're working together again, that you're still going out with each other?"

_Oh, son of a… Skye, I'm going to kill you._

"I'm not in the habit of getting into relationships with my subordinates," Roahn quickly fibbed before Skye could get a word in. "It's honestly not something that I've thought of since Skye's been assigned to our team."

"Then I guess your past relationship isn't a distraction if you're able to fight alongside each other?" Taylor guessed.

_Yes_.

"No," Roahn said.

At this point, it was evident to the other quarian at the table that Roahn had gone quite stiff and tense. Taylor was a compassionate sort, not to mention empathetic, so she realized (finally) that there this was a topic that Roahn might not be comfortable discussing for long periods of time. Searching for something else to talk about, Taylor's gaze swept over to Korridon, who had been quite for the entire conversation, eyes uncomfortably wide as he had taken large sips of his drink, presumably to chemically hasten the drowning out of the awkward vibes garnered from being in such close proximity to this line of dialogue.

"We haven't heard much from you yet, Korridon," Taylor said, causing the turian to jump and to spill his drink slightly as the focus of the conversation now turned onto him. "Did you know Roahn before being assigned to her team?"

Korridon shook his head as he patted his sleeve dry. "Actually, no. Call it a coincidence, a fortuity, or whatever. The commander took a chance on me by extending an invitation to join her team."

"Found it to be what you expected?"

The turian politely chuckled, his somewhat kind eyes flicking over to the quarian sitting across from him. "I… I don't know what I expected. But I never would have guessed that I would have found myself as part of such a team."

"Do you have anyone special in your life?"

"What do you mean?" Korridon asked.

Taylor shrugged. "A partner. Husband, wife, something like that."

Now it seemed it was quite difficult for Korridon to make eye contact with anyone. "Um… no. Not presently, at least."

Next to him, Skye scoffed. "I should think that someone like you would be able to snag someone quite easily. I could… hey!" The human brightened, taken by an idea. "I could be your wingman! I'm sure there's plenty of people around here that are your type. What are you into? Turians? Humans? Asari?"

Korridon's eyes had been bulging wider and wider in mortification at the sheer notion that he would have to enlist someone to give his dating life a boost. As quickly as he could muster, he shook his head savagely.

"Skye, don't… please…"

"Hey, _hey!_" Skye turned around and waved at a passing clutch of turian females who were chatting to themselves as they tried to find a table. "You girls should have heard all the nice stuff this man was saying to you while you were ordering! He's just the—"

With a speed that startled everyone at the table, Korridon whirled around and grabbed at Skye's arm gently but quite firmly. The music surging around the bar chose that moment to drop out, creating a momentary vacuum of noise in which Korridon was able to get out one word, but the delivery was a tortured rasp so quiet it could have been mistaken for calmness, but the unamused glint in his eyes was enough to convey the desperation that fueled his movements.

"_Stop_."

The timbre was lower and more savage than Roahn had previously heard from Korridon before. At some level of her subconscious, it almost terrified her because, in that quick glimpse, she had seen a side to the turian that she had never seen before. It was a raw, more primal side. It was Korridon at the end of his rope, finally fed up.

The mirth fell away from Skye's face as she momentarily felt a startled pang. Another lesson for the woman that she had gone too far. Yet again.

Korridon's expression changed not a whit as he slowly opened his fingers, allowing Skye to take her arm away. Another song on the playlist began to spool back up with the throbbing surge of bass pulsations that took up residence in everyone's eardrums. The turian returned to his drink with a somber glance and Roahn carefully mimicked his movements while making sure to briefly connect her gaze with Skye's, hoping to see some semblance of remorse upon her face. No such luck. Skye was still reeling from confusion at being cut off so abruptly, perhaps not even understanding where she had erred.

After the group had finished their drinks, many of them had an inclination to partake in the festivities on the dance floor. A decent way to blow off such feelings of awkwardness. After all, with drink in their bellies, they had lost any barriers of self-consciousness with regards to their dancing abilities that would otherwise act as a deterrent.

Taylor led Roahn towards the dance floor by the hand, with Skye and Korridon hurrying to keep up in the wake of the two quarians. Upon traversing through the jungle of writhing bodies, Taylor immediately erupted into a series of swaying motions, caring not a whit about appearances or if her actual movements were lining up to the beat of the music. Roahn paused for a moment in the center of the area, struck by her friend's confidence, before she too joined in with a jerky choreography. Her dancing skills were nothing to brag about (the alcohol certainly was not doing her any favors) but Roahn did think that she was doing a damn sight better than most of the people in this place, probably because everyone else was even more drunk they had no idea what position all of their limbs were in. Skye then eagerly jumped in to form a tangled circle as she made a passable attempt to dance while Korridon, the most sober of the four, eventually shuffled in, not looking completely comfortable, but was kept reasonably sane by the presence of the other three people around him.

The capacity of the bar ebbed and flowed as the hours saw patrons come and go. Roahn had truthfully lost track of time as the beat of the music seemed to carry her away, the haze of liquor midway through subsiding. A smile on her face, she looked amongst the people in her proximity, from the joyful serenity in Taylor's eyes, the enticing smirk on Skye while her crimson hair bobbed in her wake, and the relaxed form of Korridon as they all were swept up in the invisible tide.

Though Roahn had to crack open an eye a little bit wider as she noticed a human in a sleeveless shirt slowly edge his way closer and closer to Taylor without her friend noticing, a sinister smile on his face. _"…thing for suited tail…"_ crept into Roahn's ears, immediately filling her veins with the clear dosage of adrenaline.

Before she could warn her, a hand lurched out of the crowd and brushed at Taylor's side. The quarian was cool enough to take the harassment in stride as she slapped the offending hand away, not looking back at the person that had just groped her. That did not completely deter the man as he seemed to grin ever wider as he crept forward, now making another greedy attempt to lay his hands upon Taylor.

Roahn was quicker on the draw as she quickly sidled up to her friend before the human could do anything else. "Try that again and you'll lose fingers," she snarled to the man.

Another human, this one a little less leering than his sleeveless buddy joined in, presumably to defuse the tension, while darkly marked turian came up behind them. _Great_, Roahn thought. _Now they've got a squad._

"Relax, honey," the other human said in a patronizing tone, which had the complete opposite effect in Roahn who proceeded to nearly go volcanic. "He just has a thing for you guys. He doesn't mean anything by it."

"Then he can keep his hands to himself," Roahn growled, a still island while the dancing crowd churned around them, awash in psychedelic colors. Taylor had put a hand on Roahn's shoulder, sensing danger, but Roahn was not having any of it as she was starting to see red.

"But you just make it _sooo_ hard," the sleeveless man whined. "It's the suits. I mean… they leave nothing to the imagination. The way they… curve… on your asses. They're just glorious. All I want is a peek at you ladies. What's wrong with that? I just want to see how pretty you are."

Roahn had never been more conscious of how her enviro-suit felt on her skin until right now. The tautness of it now felt so wrong, like a reptilian skin that needed to be shed. Her fingers curled into fists, hidden by the grateful shadows while her silver gaze grew hardened with steel.

"Roahn, let's just get out of here," Taylor urged as she tried to push her friend back. "They're just drunk."

"You think that's going to make them leave us alone?" Roahn muttered out of the corner of her mouth before she spoke louder to the men. "We're not interested, so get the hell out of here."

The sleeveless man pretended to consider these words before making a callous shrug. "Oh, come on. Don't be like that. I know you're just playing. It's okay, sweetie, you don't need to act tough around me."

The quarian wondered if this guy even knew who he was talking to or if he made a habit of doing this routine to women often. Regardless, Roahn was already feeling sick to her stomach, especially after being called 'sweetie', and was seriously considering sticking a knife in this man's foot before Korridon suddenly made his way forward, his arms pushing the two sides apart.

"All right, guys, knock it off," the turian said diplomatically. "These ladies have had a long night and all they want is to be left alone—_argh!_"

The other turian, sensing weakness, quickly lunged forward and grabbed Korridon by the shoulders. He rotated in place, hurtling the younger turian several meters across the room. Korridon careened into several tables, spilling drinks and finger food. The drenched alien skidded across the sticky floor, smelling of booze and bar cheese, going limp with a groan.

With a cruel laugh, the sleeveless man turned to reach out a hand to grab at Roahn's shoulder now, confident that her 'bodyguard' had been dealt with. But when he was a scant few centimeters away from making contact, Roahn whipped up her left hand, caught the human's own appendage, and clenched down with all her might.

There was a rapid series of crunches like plastic being trod on as every bone in the human's hand shattered, crushed from the force of Roahn's prosthesis.

The human glanced down in the series of seconds where the pain had not yet registered, his face progressing into an expression of shock. When the pain finally did hit, he let out a yowl that was drowned out by a barrage of intoxicated singing from the other dancers. He sank to his knees as Roahn let go of his hand, which was already turning nasty shades of purple and sickly yellow, his fingers jutting out in angles that were certainly not natural.

"My hand!" she heard him howl. "Bitch broke my haaaaand!"

Taylor then took her chance and surged forward in an open-palm strike. The heel of her palm impacted perfectly on the man's nose, breaking it, and making it look like an explosion of blood had burst in his face. Thrown from the momentum of the blow, the sleeveless man collapsed, blood smearing across his features while his ruined fingers helplessly twitched and throbbed.

The aggressor's other human friend, the one who had seemed more aware of his surroundings, had only a moment to take stock of the situation before he angrily stepped forward, intent on levying a slap to Taylor's face. But Skye, now stone-cold sober, came in with an attack of her own. A wall of biotic energy shot from her fist and slammed right into the human's chin, the sheer power of the force sending him airborne into the light fixtures several feet overhead. His skull smashed into one of the supporting beams, dislodging one of the atmospheric lanterns in a flurry of vibrant sparks. He crashed down to the ground, breaking one of his legs in the process while also sporting a concussion.

The bystanders scattered in alarm as the remaining turian pulled a knife from his belt. Several screams peppered the bar while the music continued to resonate.

Roahn stood the most prominently, Taylor and Skye at her sides. The women took stock of the new danger that had presented itself and proceeded to answer by activating their omni-blades, emitting a caustic glow from the center of the flow.

The singular turian seemed to falter upon realizing that he was suddenly outnumbered and outgunned as he took a lonely look at the paltry blade clutched in his fist. However, he was still too taken by intoxication to make amends and disengage from the confrontation, even as the barks from approaching bouncers were starting to make themselves known. His eyes swept back and forth, trying to gauge which one to attack first. He seemed to be considering Taylor and Roahn the most prominently—tearing open a quarian's enviro-suit would certainly cause the most damage. The turian tensed his knees, about to strike.

But there was a percussive pop and a burst of glass erupted around the turian's head. He staggered and the knife dropped from suddenly limp fingers. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he dropped to the floor, revealing Korridon standing right behind him, clutching the shattered stem of a liquor bottle.

Skye gave a loud laugh. "Oh, man. That's too funny."

"You brilliant turian!" Roahn stepped over the prone bodies of the men they had taken care of to give her friend a quick hug. Korridon was wobbling unsteadily against her and he dropped his makeshift weapon so that he could clutch at his head. "Are you okay?"

"I've had better days," Korridon grunted, slurring his words a bit. "Hell of a headache."

"Here, we'll find you a seat."

Roahn had to enlist Skye's help to haul Korridon away. The bouncers skirted past them without making any second glances. Security here would have clearly seen that Roahn and her friends had been accosted by the three so-called tough guys which made their aggressive reactions understandable. Bar protocol was practically shared by all the species across hundreds of years—starting a fight was looked down on but finishing a fight was not.

The two women gradually sat Korridon down at a booth in one of the quieter corners. Roahn gave the turian a grateful pat on the shoulder, a warm look of approval clearly evident in her clouded expression.

Skye, on the other hand, was more jubilant. She clapped her hands together as she beamed at Korridon. "Take a breather, Korr. Let us know when the room stops spinning for you, 'cause the rest of your drinks are on us tonight!"

* * *

**A/N: All right, I'm back and ready to get back down to the grindstone. The regular release schedule should resume now that I've taken care of some things in my personal life in addition to recovering from the jet lag that I got after returning from Australia. Overall, quite the rewarding trip and the country is certainly a place that I would wholeheartedly recommend everyone visit at least once in your life... when it's not on fire, that is.**

**If you have time, let me know what you think of the chapter!**

**Playlist:**

**Raucous' Curse**  
**"Tripwire"**  
**Thomas Newman**  
**1917 (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Bar Fight [Source Music]**  
**"Reload"**  
**Rob Zombie**  
**The Matrix Reloaded: The Album**


	22. Chapter 22: Ineffectual Immunity

"_A 5 minute break after 1 hour of playing is recommended. A 15 minute break after 3 hours is strongly advised. If you play for over 5 consecutive hours without any breaks, we advise that you stop playing altogether and take a long look at yourself, making sure to question if you are satisfied with your life, before going back to the game."_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_Times Main Office  
__Omaha, UNAS  
Earth_

The interior of the _Times_ headquarters reminded Cirae very much of one of Thessia's many Atheneums she had spent a good chunk of her childhood in. An open courtyard format on the inside, the first few levels of the skyscraper rimming around the edges of the foundation before the ceiling finally encompassed the rest of the building from the fifteenth story up. The floor here was thinly carpeted and there were endless rows of low wood desks occupied by dutiful reporters and researchers, all staring intently at their consoles. The asari Atheneums had been billeted as centers of knowledge on her world, a repository of her people's combined experience and wisdom, so it always gave Cirae a sense of home whenever she wandered in a location that could replicate such emotions. It was certainly invigorating to know that humans had been building such centers for the development of knowledge for centuries.

Such feelings were perhaps expected now that she was standing within such a vaunted news publication like the _Times_. Now this was a place Cirae could feel comfortable in.

One could say that the architecture here was efficient. There was a robust sense of the industrial and the minimalist subtly making itself inherent in the overall atmosphere as demonstrated by the clear paneling that exposed the interior wiring and foundational supports on erratic parts of the structure. Staircase slopes were abundant and several information terminals were available to all, slotted into the smooth walls that were painted the color of steel. The floors had been pristinely cleaned, spotless of dust. One could set up an entire manufacturing setup here and not have to worry about contaminants, Cirae figured.

Enlarged graphics of meaningful and in-house quotes in an old-looking font had been etched onto the walls while holographic posters of previous award-winning headlines had been printed out and framed on the supporting pillars, presumably as a way to both brag about the company's achievements while simultaneously boosting morale. The posters themselves were the perfect motivation device. Their placement subtly implied, "Write well enough and someday your work might be on this wall too!" Cirae was jaded enough to expect that none of the average beat writers could ever hope to scrounge up the prose necessary to earn their place on the wall of fame here. Granted, everyone here was good at their jobs, but the _Times_ was a name that spoke of greatness in this industry, not just for humans but for a good chunk of the galaxy as well. This was not just any average publication akin to the reactionary spin-centric rags that were only run by two people out of an extranet site. The _Times_ was humanity's first and probably only source for extensive and sometimes unbiased information, a union from two of the most prestigious newspaper makers on the planet: _The New York Times_ out of UNAS and _Der Spiegel_ out of the EU. Only the best news writers on Earth worked at the _Times_.

In her own biased opinion, Cirae figured that the man she was here to see, Avi Ben-Zvi, occupied a slot in the top echelon of the _Times'_ writers, but she would never tell him that to his face. The man was humble, but not _that_ humble.

A programmable holo-card "hung" from the asari's suit lapel as she was led through the twists and turns of the building by a receptionist after being let off on the thirty-seventh floor. The card displayed Cirae's name, contact information, and who she was here to see. Normally, protocol would dictate that she wait in the lobby while her contact—in this case, Avi—would be alerted to her arrival, but since she was a government representative and that Avi was in a meeting and would not be looking at his messages, Cirae was allowed to come past the security desk and into the building to seek him out herself.

Downtown Omaha rose past the windows as she walked, though there was nothing particularly interesting about neither the skyline nor the surrounding forested suburbs to attract her attention. Cirae had initially been nonplussed at why such a prestigious institution such as the _Times_ would choose to base itself here. Apparently there was the war to thank for that. The Reapers had destroyed the _Times'_ main building in New York City during their occupation—the paper had a secondary site in Omaha and that city had not been hit quite so hard in comparison. Seeking to minimize financial losses, the offices were moved over to the inner UNAS and had stayed ever since, much to the detriment of its overall accessibility. It was obvious that Omaha's transportation infrastructure was not as expansive as one would find in New York. Many of the _Times'_ staff still lived over on the eastern coast of the continent.

Shame about the scenery, or lack thereof, as Omaha was quite a flat and featureless place. Cirae would have preferred to work with a view that was a little more varied but for once she could understand any sympathize with the perspective of a corporation. The irony was not lost on her.

The asari shouldered her way past hordes of bustling interns and automated carts filled to the brim with research materials, which were shuttling to and fro to deliver their items to frantic writers trying to meet inflexible deadlines. Cirae had to constantly dart out of the way so as not to get run over by an errant cart. A bruise on the shin would be an inconvenience, not to mention the momentary pain from getting hit would be outrageous.

According to the receptionist, Avi was currently in conference room Antietam. All the rooms on this levels were named after famous battles from a civil war that had occurred in one of the former countries that comprised the UNAS. She passed Bull Run, Shiloh, Vicksburg, and finally Appomattox before finally rounding the corner to arrive at Antietam. One of the walls of the conference room was thick-paneled glass frosted in a series of interlacing diamonds to prevent people from looking on in. Cirae could see vague outlines from behind the glass, one of which was presumably Avi. In her earlier days, when she was driven more from politeness and decorum, she would have waited patiently outside the room for Avi to eventually reveal himself after his duties had concluded, but Cirae had found that her patience had worn quite short over the past few weeks. She shouldered the door and walked right on in.

Avi was physically alone in the room, his back to her, on a video conference with someone elsewhere on the planet, judging from the fact that another human woman's enlarged appearance on the screen at the far wall was considering Avi intently. He had not noticed Cirae's arrival.

"—I'm telling you," he was saying aloud to the screen, "the fact of the matter is that we have nothing concrete that we could use for this. It's a shot in the dark. Speculation. You know we can't even run on a hunch with this one, it's too risky."

"_Avi, I'm telling you_," the woman said, "_the intel on this is legit. I can get you quotes from—_"

"From people who weren't even there to see it. I'm not saying that it didn't happen, Maddie, but if you can't get anything on an official channel, or from someone willing to go on the record, there's nothing for us to report. We're not a tabloid, we don't just fire off character assassinations without the proof to back it up. I'm not saying it didn't happen to this woman, but unless something comes up legitimately, we're not going to use this."

"_You're a real coward, Avi_," the woman called Maddie spat.

"It isn't personal, it's just—" Avi tried to say before the call abruptly cut off on Maddie's end. "…business."

The lights brightened and Avi rubbed at his temples. Cirae was still slinking around near the door, hands folded across her chest.

"Shooting down puff pieces now, Avi?" she finally announced after it seemed like the man was taking his sweet time in turning around.

Cirae had to admit that it was particularly funny to see Avi jump nearly a foot out of his seat in surprise. "Cirae?!" he exclaimed. "You… you got here quick! Wasn't expecting you until later this evening."

"Caught an earlier flight out. Shuttles are quick and cheap over here."

Avi managed a shaky grin. He was a rather awkward example of what constituted as a human to Cirae—tall and lanky, hair tangled in a topknot, Avi was olive skinned and his was beard perpetually in a state of five o'clock shadow. It looked like he was always just a couple steps away from looking perfunctory but he deliberately relented in doing so as if that was his own way of rebelling against outdated fashion codes. She couldn't put her finger on it, but Cirae found Avi endearing, even with his atrocious sense of style. The man was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt for crying out loud, a fashion that apparently had been passé for several decades on this planet.

The man offered her a seat, but she preferred to stand. "Did I walk in on something that I wasn't supposed to?"

Avi considered this before shaking his head. "Just yet another occurrence of being swept up in a complicated blackmail routine. It seems like this happens every month—an investigative reporter gets a lead that a man in a position of power took advantage of a vulnerable woman's—"

"Raped, you mean," Cirae cut in.

"I was trying not to offend your sensibilities…"

"I'm several times older than you, you moron. I've both heard and seen it all. The last thing I need is for you to think that I've somehow developed a sudden sensitivity for gristly details."

"As you wish," Avi held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, so the long and short of this story is that the son of a prominent senator on Earth _raped_ an up-and-coming starlet in the entertainment industry. The two allegedly met at a party and went back to a hotel room together. The girl emerges hours later from the room crying but does not report the crime. I wish I could tell you that's the first instance of this story that I've heard in my career. The sad thing is that, these stories nearly always pan out one of two ways: either through private settlements or both parties conveniently forget that anything happened at all. The victim doesn't want to go to the police, nothing goes on the record, which means that _we_ technically can't report it because anything we print could be interpreted as potentially libelous."

Cirae blinked. "Then… you don't believe that it happened?"

"Oh, I _know_ it happened," Avi crossed his legs. "The problem simply lies in proving it. That's the issue reporters like Maddie can't seem to understand. Not only are we stymied politically from commenting on this, there's also the legal obligation we have to make sure that whatever we put out there can be irrefutably backed up by facts. The day we start relying on rumors and speculation is the day we cease becoming a respected institution. That's what happened to the Murdoch companies a hundred years ago—the _Times_ will not follow that route!"

_Certainly passionate about the job at hand_, Cirae thought. One of the reasons why she liked Avi so much was that he could be particularly effusive about the role the fourth estate played into shaping sociopolitical events while continuing to maintain a solid moral compass. The relationship between politicians and the media could be rather frosty at times, but Cirae had always found that strengthening her connections would sooner or later prove to be more beneficial than a detriment.

"Well," Cirae said as she slowly walked up to where Avi was sitting, "I may have something that could distract your mind from being unable to report on a shady sex cabal, if that's something you're interested in."

Avi's eyebrows raised, his interest piqued. "I'm in between stories right now, so you've already got me at a good time. It must be big if you're here to talk about it in person. You usually would just tell me the details over a call."

"It's a matter of life and death, Avi."

"Are you being sensational or is that literal?"

Cirae's face flattened and her eyes narrowed. "Avi, I'm a politician. It's my job to have as level of a head as possible."

"You going to tell me what it's about?" Avi asked.

"Not right here," Cirae frantically shook her head. "Back at your apartment, where there are less prying eyes."

"And here I thought you came all this way just to sleep with me."

"Well… that too," Cirae admitted with a guilty look. "I've had you on my mind lately."

"I see."

"Let's hope so. So, what would you want first? The scoop or the sex?"

The ragged face twisted into a grin of sheer amusement, the sort one gets when they realize they had been holding a greater amount of power than they had initially anticipated. "Oh? I get a choice, is that it? Huh. Such a dilemma: scoop or sex."

"Avi," Cirae said tonelessly. "Need I remind you that this is a matter of life and death?"

The man screwed his lip up into a mock face of admission before giving a pronounced nod to bookend the conversation. "Sex, then."

"I thought so."

* * *

_Coraltide Vein__  
The Citadel_

The Citadel itself operated on a flexible schedule for its working-class citizens, being that it was a space station with its own artificial day/night cycle on certain portions of its structure. Places like the Presidium, however, were subject to a constant dosage of projected daylight thereby skewing the concept of what was a "working day." A standard day on the Citadel took around 20 hours—most businesses on the station based their work week around that framework.

At this current hour, the vast majority of the citizenry were most likely sleeping in their apartments. Despite the inauspicious time for production to proceed in favor of commerce, a golden grid of glimmering traffic lights constantly marked a boundary that crisscrossed and interweaved its way around the station. The never-ending flux that was the super-conduits of mid-air gridlock. Scattershot strands of transportation strands that served to connect the station with its harboring world below.

The lateness of the night (or perhaps the earliness of the day) meant that the footways in and around the main shopping areas were starkly clear, for the most part. A gaggle of four staggering outlines weaved back and forth down the clear avenues, all laughing and chattering loudly amongst themselves, serving as the only aberrations to the otherwise quiet morning. The broad and open streets acted as a tempting channel to obnoxiously take up as much space as possible. With no danger of colliding with other passerby in sight, the four individuals swayed to and fro as they took the opportunity to inhabit a larger personal sphere than normal, a momentary break from the natural tenet to preserve space as much as possible whilst being free of a planetary body.

Skye was demonstrating this newfound freedom by choosing to walk along the raised platform that split the road into two—hardy trees and shrubs had been planted here by groundskeepers to give the steel pathways a splash of green to the overall décor. A broadly grinning Roahn walked on the road alongside the human, Korridon following closely behind with an ice pack applied to the side of his head. Taylor was leading the way, as usual, arms raised out in appreciation of the uncommon influx of space on this station at this time of the day. Being raised on Earth, Taylor had developed a severe distaste for claustrophobic spaces—the Citadel was tolerable in small doses as the crowds here were often madness so moments like these were no doubt savored by her.

The four individuals existed in a contemplative plane of equanimity that, for the moment, served to supplant the dreadful feelings that had been encroaching from their combined moments of constant combat or from wallowing in terror for long periods of time. Neither of them, Roahn especially, dared to linger their thoughts on the stoic duty that their work would guide them back on again, for that would ultimately destroy the illusion of today, to undo the careful fantasy that they had concocted by only concentrating on the here and now, pushing the worries of the future further away.

Yet those worries could not be stymied forever. They were the tide, always constant, always eroding away the barricades.

Roahn knew that better than anyone. She had the scars to prove it.

But instead in giving into that fear, Roahn still maintained the frame of mind to enjoy herself right at this moment, bolstered by the infectious enthusiasm of her friends and comrades. Even Korridon, wounded in action though he might be, was grinning somewhat painfully as Skye recounted one of her tall tales of fending off several attackers at a dive bar as a way to conveniently draw forth a parallel to her own experiences or perhaps to upstage Korridon with a tale that had just a little more action in it. Roahn had periodically asked the turian if he had been okay—the lump he had garnered on his head by trying to use diplomacy instead of his fists in defusing the situation with that collection of drunks had been an unseemly souvenir that had lingered for longer than expected. Turians had tough skin but the cartilage underneath their outer plating still bruised rather easily. Still, Korridon had told Roahn every time that the injury was slowly subsiding even though was apparently throbbing like a bastard. The sympathetic bartenders had been quick to supply the turian with a pack of ice without being prompted.

Anything to help out one wounded in battle, so it seemed.

"Strange thing is," Skye suddenly said out of the blue, "I'm not really all that tired."

"You too?" Taylor turned around as she proceeded to now walk backwards. "I thought it was just me."

"You, Roahn?" Skye asked.

Smiling, and still just the faintest bit tipsy, Roahn shook her head. "I'm doing better than I thought, actually." That was not facetious. Despite being temporarily hospitalized not 24 hours earlier, Roahn's most previous afflictions had been easily forgotten thanks to tonight's events.

The human sidled up to Roahn and nudged her arm with an elbow. "You see what I see?"

"No. What?"

Skye pointed towards the end of the street, way off towards the left. One of the multitudinous skycar stands offered an unwavering orange light, a beacon for the wayward traveler, but parked right next to it were several of the ubiquitous transports arranged in a row, ready for use.

"You don't still happen to have that root access hack on you?"

Roahn's thin veil of drunkenness fell away completely as though someone had doused her with cold water. She looked at Skye in bemusement. "Surely you can't be serious?"

"Name's not Shirley, babe," Skye laughed as she trotted away in a jog towards the front vehicle, a red-painted model, and tried to lift the hatch. The door refused to budge—locked tight. "Come on, can you open this thing?"

Roahn spread her arms wide in confusion. "Just what do you have in mind?"

"Night's still young. Figure we can have a little more fun."

There was a deep-seated doubt as Roahn tried to read into the human's actions, but there was still the subtle pull of affection and curiosity. She walked over, omni-tool activated, and gently grasped the handle. Her tool automatically connected to the skycar's network and cracked the weak encryption in seconds. The interior lights brightened and the door unlocked with a hiss. Roahn opened the door wide but Skye did not enter just yet.

"A lap around the Presidium ring," the woman smirked. "Guidance systems off. You and me. Interested?"

Roahn arched an eyebrow. "A race?"

"And you thought I was going to _behave_ for the entirety of shore leave?"

_That would be out of character, wouldn't it? _Roahn thought.

She could have used her superiority to deliver another reprimand unto the woman for suggesting such a foolhardy method of entertainment. This was reckless, even by Skye's standards. Yet, for what it was worth, Roahn faltered in stopping this line of thought before it could take hold in her mind. The welcome craving of adrenaline, the simple and pleasurable rush of speed beckoned. Her rank could not iron out Roahn's spirit completely and a simple smile came to her face.

"I'll take you up on that," she said, perhaps not fully comprehending the magnitude of what she had just agreed to.

Skye winked and made a shooting motion with her finger as she clambered into the first skycar.

Taylor guiltily edged over to Skye's vehicle, looking almost sorry for what she was about to say. "I'll go with her. Make sure she doesn't act too crazy."

"Good luck with that," Roahn commented wryly. She then walked to the skycar parked immediately behind Skye's but not before tapping Korridon on the shoulder. "You're with me."

"No argument there," Korridon murmured as he chucked the now-melted bag of ice into an automated waste receptacle. Roahn had already hacked open the second vehicle and had taken her place on the left side where the steering controls usually generated. The limber turian slowly sat down on the right, gingerly prodding his head and finding his wound to be in the process healing nicely.

Roahn waited a moment for the turian to fully settle in and for the doors to slide shut. There was a slight hissing noise as the door seals secured themselves in a vacuum lock. Once that was completed, Roahn raised her hands in front of her, automatically engaging the manual controls just below her fingertips, bathing the both of them in an artificial glow.

Skycars were meant to follow their automatic programming and fly across predesignated flight routes. However, those with military experience or certain licenses had authorization to switch on manual mode and fly the craft freely. The lights on the dashboard switched over from blue to red as a result of this, indicating the change in permissions.

A holographic dashboard glimmered to life in front of Roahn. There were two empty circles at a natural height for her arms to rest that indicated where her hands were supposed to go—these were the controls for the pitch and thrusters. She slowly slotted her wrists through the shimmering cuffs and the skycar began to subtly tremble as it detected the input. The craft slowly raised from the ground, its undercarriage thrusters igniting, and it gave a languid turn as Roahn rotated her left wrist.

Next to her, Korridon was planting his feet hard against the footwell as he grabbed up at one of the door handles for support. "You ever have one of those moments when you seriously get second thoughts about something?" he asked through a grimace, glancing balefully through the expansive canopy above his head.

"You still have time to get out," Roahn said, her attention more concentrated on the pre-flight checks she was currently performing. The turian considered the offer but something made him stay, keeping him in his seat.

A light on the dash pinged. "_All set over here_," Skye's voice burst through. Roahn could look up and see that the human had pulled her vehicle next to hers. The two skycars rippled from their pulsating engines, a low purr in their content state. "_How are your preparations going?_"

"We're finished," Roahn said. "Ready for the count."

"_Count? Nah, we don't need a count_."

Roahn could only stare as, with a soft whine, Skye's vehicle abruptly shot off the ledge and pitched downward into the transit tunnels below. There was a glimmer of lights and Roahn's skycar was left all alone upon the ledge.

"Cheater," Roahn groused before muttering to Korridon. "Hold on."

"Oh… Spirits," the turian mumbled as Roahn tilted her hands forward, nudging the skycar into a slow dive.

The acceleration dampeners in the craft counteracted the lurch of gravity upon the occupants but it was still a bit nauseating to see the entire scenery yaw and roll as it had been a mere projection against the glass. Roahn eased off the throttle to have the skycar naturally orient itself before she suddenly gunned the engines, taking off in hot pursuit after the reddish pinprick that was Skye's vessel.

The interior of the Presidium ring was a labyrinth of steel channels and canyons that coalesced into overcrowded pathways. Tight right angles presented gut-wrenching obstacles. Instrument vanes sprouted from every angle upon the walls, creating a savage boundary that threatened to impede one's flight path. Thin windows alongside the corridors shimmered like quartzite and diamond, blending into a single hue as the scenery whisked by at slightly over a hundred miles per hour.

Roahn was leaning forward, her eyes in constant flux as she took care to notice every detail of her surroundings. Her hands made slow movements on the controls, never jerky, always composed. She made careful banks of the craft, sending the skycar into smooth turns that clipped each apex nearly perfectly. Up ahead, Skye did not seem to be quite as skilled with her own craft—she was having to slow down too much to make the tight turns and she was overcompensating with her controls as if they were overly sensitive to her input.

The wedge-shaped skycars were making low-pitched whistling noises as they cut through the thin air. Lucky it was still late at night otherwise this conduit would be filled to the brim with commuters or long-haul truckers. The two racers still had to avoid the occasional flyer on the road, but they made sure to give them all a wide berth so as not to cause any accidents.

Roahn took a split-second to glance over at Korridon. The turian was still clinging tightly onto whatever handholds the skycar had within reach, his eyes bulging at their widest. Clearly he did not look comfortable.

"Having fun?" she facetiously called over to him. When he did not answer right away, she sent the skycar into a quick corkscrew just to elicit any sound from his throat.

"Any more moves like that and I'm going to throw up," Korridon groaned.

"Susceptible to motion sickness?"

"No," Korridon said. "Just crazy flying."

The quarian's maneuvers had brought her skycar to within several dozens of meters from Skye. The human had undoubtedly noticed that Roahn had caught up to her with ease and was now going to employ a few dirty tactics to keep her lead. Skye yanked her vehicle back and forth, blocking Roahn's path down the tunnel, ensuring that if Roahn were to try anything, a collision could become a definite possibility.

_Crazy bitch_, she thought.

"Crazy bitch," she said.

"And I thought I was alone in that sentiment," Korridon commented, trying not to puke.

Still Skye continued to whip her skycar all around, forcing Roahn to slow down. "_What's wrong?_" she taunted over the radio. "_Trying to pass me?_"

_Oh, I don't need to try to do that._

A solution to this problem was quickly presenting itself that Roahn noticed well before Skye could even react. A small crevasse hurriedly onrushing on the right, marked by construction lights.

Roahn grinned tightly as she sent the vehicle scything through the air to thread the needle down the small service corridor. Skye had chosen to stay to the main roads while Roahn was using this path as a shortcut. No doubt the human would be frantically looking around, trying to pinpoint where the hell Roahn had gotten to.

The metallic gorge was even tighter here and connected by a span of walkways, horizontal pylons so thick and close they looked like the walls had been peeled apart to form layered pedestals. Roahn had to shift the skycar up and down to dodge them all while maintaining a steady speed and a relatively constant bearing. A few repair drones shot by overhead, creating a soft blanket of whirring ory parts and artificial flotsam.

"Oh, this is insane," Korridon said as the walls seemed to close in tighter and tighter.

The bumpy embankments all melded together in a blurry screen, a restriction upon Roahn's vision as it seemed the horizon was slowly disappearing under a tight and solid blockade. The orientation of the shaft twisted and turned until both driver and passenger had completely lost their bearings. But still they sped on, withstanding the ramparts and the limiting palisades until, at the last second, the paneling opened up to a wider shaft. The skycar burst free with a limited whine, a momentary surge of victory now that they had made it home free.

_And, what do you know_, Roahn noticed on the rear cameras. Skye's vehicle was now bringing up the rear, the woman behind the canopy glass no doubt slack-jawed in amazement.

"_No way!_" her voice predictably came over the comm. "_How did you get in front?!_"

"You going to answer her?" Korridon asked after Roahn made no motion to respond.

The quarian shook her head as she sent the skycar diving underneath a large transport rig. "She wants me to respond. Staying silent gets into her head, and I kind of want to mess with her."

Now Korridon stared at Roahn with the sort of nervous expression that indicated a severe amount of hesitation that was stymying his next words. It was as if he found some potential line of thought in his head to be discomforting and overall inappropriate. But sometimes these battles were never destined to be won, merely considered.

"Sometimes I really don't get the two of you," he murmured, trying to focus on Roahn instead of the stomach-churning background.

"How so?" Roahn grunted as she edged the skycar faster, taking a corner at speed so that Skye would not find a clear passing lane.

"I can't tell if you want to hit or hug Skye a lot of the time."

"She's…" Roahn spoke before she halted, trying to find the right words which would be a challenging prospect even while not operating a fast moving vehicle, "…a handful."

Korridon's head lowered, his eyes lidded into piercing and judgmental slits. "But you still care about her, don't you?"

There was something in the turian's voice that served to emit a frosty pang deep within Roahn's chest. Was it from the realization that her personal squabble with the human had been noticed by others? Others who she would have never intended to get caught in or even notice the crossfire? Did Korridon see her failure to make proper amends with Skye as a flaw in her character or was there something more deep-seated to his question that she was not considering?

Or… was she being paranoid and reading too much into his query?

Gaps in the Presidium ring caused thick rays of sunlight to bolt in, momentarily blinding the passengers while the canopy worked to filter out the incoming UV radiation. "It's hard for me to completely let go of her," her honesty spilled right out from her. "Spend a good long while with someone during one of the most strenuous periods of your life—those kind of bonds are difficult to break. I loved her at one point. I guess I still do. But it's not an easy love to put into words, do you know what I'm saying?"

"I think so," Korridon said, but Roahn did not notice that the turian had broken eye contact to stare off into the distance, his face drooping into a series of emotions so inscrutable and private that she would never have been able to decipher his true feelings had she even been paying complete attention.

Continuing on, Roahn shook her head as if to clear her mind at the same time she brought the skycar sideways in a slow bank, the side of the station now whisking by at a rapid spin directly overhead. "If her fidelity was only a little more unshakable, perhaps I'd be able to love her wholeheartedly. But there are limits to my trust. She still needs to rebuild what she broke."

"How so?" Korridon asked, his face coming back around in interest.

Roahn was initially unsure if she wanted to reveal this to Korridon, but thought better of keeping it a secret. The turian had proved himself worthy of her confidence, at least at this level.

"She cheated on me years ago," she said. "Hard to come back from that, I'd say."

Korridon clenched a hand in surprise. "I didn't know that," he said. "I'm sorry."

"The funny thing was that Skye thought she was doing it for the right reasons—as though as she thought she could justify _cheating_—but I couldn't look at her the same way after that. To be so… careless in many ways. I see her now and I'm not sure if she still realizes what she did was wrong."

"Yet you think you can go back to the way things were?" Korridon leaned forward, a tremble now barely discernable at the edge of his quiet and layered voice.

Roahn's hands relaxed on the controls as the docks came into view. The last turn. The homestretch.

"Maybe," was all she said as her skycar crossed the invisible endpoint with little fanfare and a dark feeling residing in her heart.

* * *

The two of them were clambering out of the skycar at around the time Skye was angling in her own vehicle to land. The human had a befuddled expression on her face through the canopy—she had clearly expected to win, considering her blatant head start. That look remained etched upon her mouth as she stepped out the instant the doors opened, causing Roahn to silently answer with a knowing glance of her own.

"Well, I'm not a sore loser," Skye said as she walked over to Roahn and Korridon. "I know when I've been beat."

"_Despite_ your best attempts to cheat," Roahn added, earning a chuckle from Korridon.

Skye shot the turian a glare, who clamped his mouth shut fearfully. "I figured that would make things more interesting," she explained. "Regardless, you won. I lost." Skye then raised her chin high. "What do I owe you from my loss?"

Roahn felt put on the spot. She had no idea that she had been supposed to wager anything. Was this another one of Skye's ploys?

"It wasn't a competition," she evaded but Skye would have none of it.

"Every bout has to have an award," the human persisted. "You don't enter into a poker match and walk away without a pot as the winner."

"Except this wasn't poker," Roahn stood her ground. "I wasn't doing this for money."

That shrewd smile was back on Skye's face while a new and subtle little glint took up residence in the corner of her eye. She remained silent for a minute before dissolving into an agreeable shrug. "Didn't say that I was putting down _money_ as my wager. Still, I'll wait until you can think of what I owe you. Shall we press back to the ship?"

Miffed, Roahn watched the departing Skye for a few moments until she followed in her steps. Korridon and her briefly locked eyes, sharing not a gesture between them, but the implications were still clear as day. There was something suspicious going on with what Skye had unexpectedly proposed—was the human trying to get inside her mind by making her feel like she was owed something? Or was Skye simply setting the foundation for something else?

All this time and she still had not completely figured out that human yet. Damn it.

* * *

_Los Angeles, UNAS__  
Earth_

Despite the housing market in Omaha being relatively stable and cheap, all things considered, Avi did not live anywhere close to his place of work. He had always harbored a longing to be near the ocean, and with the income he gained from both his employment and from releasing a few highly acclaimed biographies, he was able to afford a high-rise in Los Angeles, the largest metropolis on the western seaboard of the continent. It was not like the commute was inconvenient—flights out of Los Angeles only took 45 minutes to get to Omaha. As far as he was concerned, he had it made.

Cirae had been in Avi's apartment several times already. Though she it had been a few years since she had last visited the premises, upon entering this time she was surprised to realize that she retained every detail quite well. Either that or Avi never put in any attention into redecorating his place which made the most sense, given that every single item in the apartment appeared to be in the last position that she was able to recall.

The two did not mince words once the door to the apartment had shut and they were standing in Avi's foyer. The two approached and found each other in a passionate kiss, their arms looping around each other's bodies in the pale light of a lonely overhead lamp. Together, they stumbled past the sparse living room and knocked against every wall in the hallway before finally arriving at the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went. Avi's bed was low to the ground but the mattress was quite soft. A decent set of gray sheets and a healthy collection of pillows was an immediate locus for where to place their bodies. The expansive window directly to the right showcased the glimmering scope of the city before them—streetlights, skycar headlights, and windows from other buildings all shining like stars. It was night at this part of the world and it, including the room, had been doused in darkness.

In no time, Cirae and Avi had clawed off the last of their garments and the asari was soon atop the human, bouncing upon him wildly with abandon. The bed gave several groans and creaks as it sagged in time to the couple's lovemaking. Cirae bobbed and writhed, her torso nearly vertical to Avi's while his hands were playing with her breasts.

She had forgotten just how quiet of a lover Avi was in times like these. When they had sex for the first time, Cirae had asked Avi afterward why he did not make any noise. It was just his way. His enjoyment was all conveyed through his expressions, though they could be so subtle that Cirae would miss some of them entirely. The asari gave a mental shrug—she was probably making enough noise for the both of them right now. She was half-expecting the neighbors to come pounding on their door at any moment, irritated from the series guttural sounds that was emanating from her throat.

The rough sex continued for several more minutes. Cirae came twice as she bounced upon Avi. He had to sit up and take her from behind so that he could finish. Once satisfied, the two soon fell upon their backs next to each other, chests slowly rising and falling as they sucked in tender breaths, their bodies not touching, keeping each other at a distance, albeit a close one. The sheets were crumpled underneath them. Several of the pillows had been kicked off the bed during their session.

A solitary lamp in the corner was unable to bring light to the entire room. What little luminescence there was crawled over any surface it could find, smothering the asari's and the human's bodies in long shadows that accentuated their contours.

After a while, Cirae suddenly sat up in the bed. "Thirsty," she announced to no one in particular before turning to Avi. "Got any beer?"

"There are a few bottles in the fridge," Avi lazily waved. "Bring me one too?"

Cirae swung her feet off the bed, her bare soles finding thick carpet. She padded over to the exit, nearly bending over to retrieve her undergarments but thought better of it. She walked to the kitchen stark naked, found the beer in the fridge, exactly as Avi had said, and grabbed two bottles. Entering the bedroom again, she could not help but smile as she found Avi propping himself up on his side seductively, his eyes not even attempting to be subtle as he gazed at her womanly areas.

"Degenerate," she smirked but handed him one of the bottles anyway.

"Hey, I _appreciate_ an attractive woman, thank you very much," Avi fake-pouted. He took a swig of his beer as Cirae settled next to him. "You're going to wear me out one of these days, you know."

"You've caught on to my master plan. I'm just biding my time until the day that I'll be able to throw out your hip from fucking you senseless."

Avi raised an eyebrow and gave a low grin. "I can get on board with that. Did I ever tell you that longevity is my fetish?"

"Shut your mouth," Cirae lightly slapped Avi's leg as she pulled up one of the sheets to cover themselves below their waists as they had gotten rather chilly. Their torsos were still bare and the two drank their beers as they sat up, backs propped by some form-fitting pillows. "I take it you enjoyed tonight?"

"I always do when I'm with you."

Cirae hid a small blush. "Flattery doesn't work on me, you know."

"So you say, yet you're still smiling."

Under the covers, Avi slid his hand over so that he was touching Cirae's bare thigh. Had this been a couple of years ago she would have jolted in surprise from the contact, but now she had been accustomed to this sort of treatment from the human. Avi was not one to display his affection through words, despite his occupation. Rather, he told everything with his eyes, with his hands, anything he could short of saying it out loud. Cirae did not mind it when he touched her like this. If anything, she liked it a lot.

There had been many times like this where the two of them had just lied in bed for hours after making love, just touching each other with their hands, exploring each other's body. Cirae particularly found the contrast between their skin tones and textures to be fascinating. Humans had such a soft feeling to their skin—simply being enveloped in a bare hug by them was incredible. Likewise, Avi seemed to have a thing for the cartilage ridges on Cirae's head, in addition to some of her more obvious female analogues.

"Have you ever thought that there's a conflict of interest somewhere in what we've been doing?" Cirae said out of the blue, eyes closed as Avi's hand began to idly move back and forth upon her leg.

The human chuckled. "All the time. But I do take solace in the fact that what we have isn't all that scandalous. Happens all the time in human politics—it's very common for politicians to wind up sleeping with members of the press."

"You know I never wanted you to feel that you were taking advantage of me throughout all this," Cirae looked over at the man, her eyes growing more limpid and honest.

Avi nodded. "And you know that I didn't go along with this purely because I might have felt that you were an 'in' to the Council's inner workings."

"Maybe we're just too timid to use each other like that. I kind of like the benefits that come with what we already have."

"As do I," the human agreed, his hand now stopping on Cirae's hip. "So, was there anything else planned for tonight that you had in mind or did you want to save what you wanted to share for tomorrow?"

"No, I'm wide awake," Cirae said as she set her beer down on the nightstand next to the bed. She then raised her arm, omni-tool switched on, as her face turned serious. "Um, before I do anything else, you realize what I'm about to show you is big, right? I mean it, Avi, I could be putting your life in danger by showing you what I've got."

"'_A matter of life and death'_, as you put it," Avi quoted, giving his eyebrows a bump. "Cirae, I used to be a war correspondent before I became a reporter. I've been shot at several times and been in danger more times than I can count."

"Nothing like this," she warned.

"What makes this time so different?"

"Well," Cirae considered, "during the war, we actually _knew_ who our enemies were."

Avi stroked his chin thoughtfully, weighing the repercussions in his head. He was not a man who panicked easily. Cirae had known him to be maddingly sober in his thought process. It was a trait she admired in him. He would probably have made a better politician than her.

"Just show me," he said. "Consequences be damned."

_As you wish_, Cirae thought before she went into her rehearsed presentation. "Consequences be damned," she repeated lowly.

She left nothing out as she explained it all to Avi. The rampant violence perpetuated by the PMCs. Her savage frustration with the Assembly's impotence to do anything about that problem. Her meeting with Miranda Lawson and her subsequent revelations about the representatives and other politicians being paid by the corporations under the table. She also recounted her conversation with Christenson and her suspicions about there being a slush fund that was grouping all the payments together. Cirae both read and showed Avi some of the documents and clips she had managed to uncover from all her investigating on the subject. The more she revealed, the further Avi's face slid into horror. That struck Cirae as unusual—whenever she had come to Avi before regarding a topic that had piqued both of their interests, Avi had never been caught off guard when Cirae was the one delivering the news. The fact that he was reacting so strongly simply served to confirm Cirae's worst suspicions about the information she had uncovered, a feeling which manifested as a heavy weight sinking lower and lower in her gut.

What she had stumbled on had massive implications for not just the political sphere, but for the entire galaxy. And now one more person was privy to only the barest glimpse of the widespread design.

"Jesus Christ," Avi said after Cirae had finished. He ran his hands through his combed hair, unintentionally undoing his topknot. "Jesus Christ. _Jesus Christ_. I don't know why I'm saying that, I'm not even a Christian. It's just… _Jesus Christ_."

"It's a lot to take in, I know," Cirae gave his shoulder a sympathetic touch.

But Avi suddenly leaped out of bed, as if possessed by a maniacal spirit. The fact that he was still naked made it mildly amusing for Cirae to witness. He paced all over the bedroom, hands still clenching his temples, his hair becoming more and more askew as he walked.

"I feel like I need a cigarette," he muttered. "Oh yeah, I'm definitely craving a light. I don't know why that is, I don't even smoke. Fuck, my mind is going in so many directions at once, Cirae. I just… I need…"

Before Cirae could offer more words of reassurance (not that she would believe them), Avi tore out of the room, leaving the asari all alone. She stared limply at the empty space the human had just occupied. A self-conscious feeling was overcoming her and she was about to shyly bring the covers up over her chest before Avi came back in the room at a fast-walk, ice cubes clinking in an alarmingly full glass of whisky that was now in a hand.

Avi took a larger than recommended mouthful of the alcohol and was amazingly able to hold it all in without succumbing to a savage burn. He was momentarily paralyzed in a full-body wince after swallowing it all down though, his esophagus not at all thanking him for the sudden abuse placed upon it. It took the man a few more seconds to calm back down to a sensible state and he returned to the bed but did not rejoin Cirae under the covers. He instead sat with his feet off the side, glass still in hand, staring off into nowhere while the dark blue night of Los Angeles merrily twinkled around his head through the windows, oblivious to his plight.

"If I told you that the _Times_ had been repeatedly punting story after story about PMC political corruption being linked over the past several years, would you find it all that surprising?" Avi asked morosely. "The fucking timing of it all…"

Cirae's hand smoothed over the lush brown skin of Avi's back. "If you had asked me that a year ago, I would have said yes."

The human shook his head. "And now you're the person looking to spring the whole thing wide open."

"All I wanted was to have my own spot on a committee," Cirae said defensively. "It was a selfish gambit from the outset."

"Does that matter now? It looks like you've shed your personal stake to me."

Cirae gave a morose stare. "Someone should have done something before I came along."

"Yeah, well they all had their chance, didn't they? It passed them by. They screwed up. Now you're the one looking for a reckoning." The man then gave a joyless chuckle. "Everyone at work knew something was up, Cirae. It was practically an open secret amongst all our forums. Across our rivals, even. There were just too many rumors of there being a full-blown scandal about the PMCs. At some point, the frequency of the rumors becomes just too hard to ignore, you know? But every time someone tried to investigate these rumors, there would be an order from higher up, without fail, informing us that trying to dig up dirt on the PMCs was irresponsible and would open the _Times_ up to litigation. So we never learned anything for all that time. And now you come in and not only show that our hunches were correct, but the speed of the corruption's spread has flourished without the press poking around."

"You were sidelined, same as I was."

"And now this has been the most definitive proof we've ever received on this whole disaster. Concrete video evidence of politicians receiving donations from the PMCs above the legal limit. You couldn't ask for better proof than that."

"So what are you thinking?" Cirae tilted her head, fingers at Avi's shoulder. "Is there a story here?"

Avi glanced back at her, playfully bemused. "Is there a story? You're damn right there's a story here, Cirae. Front-page potential, if you ask me." A minute escalation of Cirae's pulse surged through her body, causing her to sit up slightly straighter. But then Avi kept speaking. "I'm just wondering one thing, though."

"What might that be?"

"You have the PMCs. You have the politicians. You have this theoretical slush fund. This whole thing is so comprehensive that it's pretty much guaranteed of there being immense financial implications. Do you know how high in the Council this actually goes?"

It was a good question, one that Cirae had actually been considering for weeks now. She had tried to find a definitive answer for so long that the very act of turning the problem over in her head gave her nothing but a splitting headache for being unable to find one.

The asari shook her head. "All I was able to uncover was that my faction leader was involved. Beyond that, I couldn't really say."

Avi was silent for a moment before he slightly nodded his head. "Well, I was thinking that the scope of the PMC payouts—that we know of—is already incredibly widespread. The first thing that I think of is that something like this would not escape the notice of the councilors. They would have to know about it already, if they aren't part of it."

"What are you saying?" Cirae leaned forward. "That the councilors are also being paid by the PMCs?"

"All I'm saying," Avi emphasized, "is that we should consider that as a very real possibility."

Cirae's heart sank. She knew where this was going next. "So you're not going to push the story, I take it?"

"Oh, I _am_ going to push it," Avi said as he stood, grabbing a robe off of the back of his desk chair. "But I want to know the whole story. Not just the bits and pieces, which is what you've brought me. I'll do some digging with what information the _Times_ has. Unofficial, of course. That'll allay any suspicions. Now that I know what to look for, I may be able to help connect the dots somewhat."

Thrilled, Cirae leapt to her feet, her hands snaking underneath the human's robe, around his waist. "Just be careful, okay? Don't tell anyone what you're researching. I don't want you to get needlessly hurt from what I just told you."

"Cirae," Avi's face softened, bringing out a swell of warmth that had been previously locked away, "when you say things like that I get the sense that you think I'm _new_ at this gig. I may have a lower lifespan, but humans are fast learners."

"Let's hope for both of our sakes that's the case," Cirae said.

The two swayed in place upon the carpet, the slowly undulating lights of the city barely illuminating half their bodies. The asari drew herself in closer, her skin pressing against the human's chest. She rested her head in the nape of Avi's neck, enjoying his body heat while he applied his tender touch to her lower back, massaging her tortured muscles.

"Headed back to the office tomorrow?" Cirae asked after about a minute of this.

"Bright and early," she felt Avi nod against her head. "You taking a shuttle to the Citadel in the morning?"

"That's the plan."

"Did you… uh…" Avi coughed, "…did you want to do anything else before you left?"

Cirae cracked open an eye so she could roll it in her socket. "If this is the kind of subtlety you're planning to use from here on out then we're all doomed." She brought herself out of Avi's embrace so that she could pull his robe wide open. She then looked down. "Yep. I'd say that words would just be redundant."

"Can't help it," Avi looked guilty but there was also a flash of arousal at having Cirae be so forceful to him. "My imagination wanders when I'm being hugged by a naked woman."

Cirae impishly lidded her eyes. "Does it wander anywhere worth residing?"

"Sometimes, though I'd say that reality is always better than what I can conjure in my head."

The asari's face levelled into a coarse sigh but she carefully led Avi back over to the bed so that she could shove him down upon it. The human flopped comically upon the sheets, sans robe, a satisfied smirk plainly evident in his look.

"You're lucky I find you attractive," Cirae muttered before she climbed atop Avi.

"Of that, I'm keenly aware," Avi grinned before he grabbed the back of Cirae's head and brought her in for a hungry kiss.

* * *

_RRV Sindra_

Empty space filled the tract of James' view from every camera angle. Motes of light, billions of miles away, glistened and shimmered as they hung in the air, as if they had been set there by a celestial hand. Mindlessly, with his feet propped up on the dashboard, the soles of his boots clipping through the holographic keyboard, he scrolled through every one of the feeds on his omni-tool, checking each side of the ship, the view from each lens, though he found nothing to have changed with each loop. Their ship was alone in the sector of the galaxy. No other objects in range. Still he cycled through the camera grid, hoping… just hoping to find something out of the ordinary, to bring a glimpse of the unknown into what would otherwise be classified as the mundane.

Behind him, slowly spinning in a chair, Jack's face was blank, teetering on the edge of sleep. Her feet gave the occasional kick to the ground, providing her with enough momentum to keep her chair rotating. Her orbit would on occasion bring her staring straight at Phoria, who had been propping up her head with a hand while she leaned onto the armrest of her own chair, eyes similarly drooping lazily.

Things had not been going well since the three of them had left Hatay. Taking refuge, temporary though it might have been, in that festering cesspool had only been the tip of the iceberg with regards to their bad luck. The fact that they had wound up killing a Spectre of all people was just another brick in the wall of hopeless regrets and otherwise inconvenient misfortunes.

James' brow furrowed sourly. So much for his intuition of there being a way to get out of this mess. Whatever communications he had sent out to the embassy—and therefore the councilor—had either been monitored or the actual Council was in on the whole conspiracy. After all, a Spectre had been sent to "clean up" this whole affair. Who but the Council would have such authority? He was not at all riding high from the quick fight he had endured with the salarian. One victory today merely meant that a greater response would come later. For all he knew he was forestalling the inevitable tidal wave that was just starting to approach.

And now he was back on Phoria's ship, trying to conjure any ideas on where he could park this thing next. He was really getting tired of being on this vessel. Despite being built for comfort, the novelty was starting to wear quite thin. Ordinarily he would be itching to leave this ship at a port of some kind, but after the bout of luck they had just went through, James did not feel like risking anyone's safety.

"Illium," Jack suddenly piped up.

"What's that?" James asked, not looking up from his omni-tool.

"Safe harbor. Illium. Any reason why that wouldn't be a good place to hide out?"

James shook his head, though the chair was blocking the movement from Jack's view. "The asari regularly patrol the area now. Illium's no longer the haven it used to be. Plus," he leaned over, "half the PMCs in the galaxy are based there. For tax purposes, so I've been told."

Jack's face fell, disappointed that her little contribution had been for nothing. "Illium, Noveria, and all of the capital worlds are all busts, then. Used to be that anyone could name five planets off the tip of their tongue as a safe harbor. Now they're either all surveillance worlds or have been dominated by the fucking corporations. Even Omega got it rough. It's been a slag heap for years now, ever since the PMCs blew it up."

"Shame," James said. "I would have chosen Omega to be our port of choice if it was still there. If Aria were still alive, she would have kicked the PMCs out long ago."

"You kidding? She never would have let them step foot on the station at all. You knew how much of a grudge she harbored against Cerberus. No way was she going to let the same thing happen to her twice."

James had never interacted with the so-called pirate queen of Omega, Aria T'Loak, in his professional career or at any time in his life. Not that he would ever get the chance—she was killed several years ago by a PMC operative in her own club. Stabbed brutally through the stomach and left to bleed out. It was foreshadowing of the sort of misfortune that Omega would soon undergo without Aria around as a guiding hand. The pirate gangs on the station, no longer left with someone to keep the peace, had erupted in all-out warfare in the streets of Omega mere hours after her death was reported, fighting over turf, over resources. Anything that was perceived to give an outfit value over their enemies.

The fighting was symptomatic, like a disease, and it had infected every square inch of the station. The volatility was so virulent that it managed to concern the politicians over on the Citadel into thinking that other gangs around the galaxy would be riled up by the devolution of civilization on Omega, spurred into violent action to take advantage of this new wave of carnage. The Council had undergone several days of debates on what to do about the "Omega Problem," but others had decided to take matters into their own hands. The asari, fully aware of the threat Omega posed, had hired a PMC to destroy Omega completely rather than risk their own troops, as they had judged this to be the more politically savvy move. With a fleet of warships arriving _en masse_ and several thousand missiles later, Omega was nothing more than shattered rock and melted steel now acting as additional detritus for the asteroid belt in which it inhabited, along with the few million people who had been reduced to ashes within it.

Officially, the asari government had been censured by the Council for going behind their back and utilizing a PMC to commit one of the worst war crimes in recent memory. Unofficially, the punishment that was due to be meted out never actually took place—the Council's actual opinion was that the judgment of the asari had been harsh but necessary as they had made a determined effort to contain the violence that was threatening to spread throughout the solar system. Also, no politician wanted to stake themselves as being an advocate of the people of Omega. Not only were they not constituents of any one member of the Assembly, Omega had never exactly prided itself as a lawful place. Possessing a supportive stance for Omega was considered needless and an impediment to one's political career anyway. Most condemned the violence that had been displayed but bit their tongues and turned their backs once the cameras were away from them.

_And if the asari had not been so hasty back then, we probably would have had a place to hide and rest today_, James thought.

"You could always try Rannoch," Phoria drawled for the first time in several hours as she flexed her fingers, trying to stave off boredom. "Lots of places to hide out there."

James sagged in his chair. "You know damn well that the quarians have imposed restrictions about allowing aliens on Rannoch. We'll need permits for that and that involves jumping through god knows how many official channels to accomplish."

Phoria shrugged. "Didn't say that Rannoch would be a place for _you_ to hide."

"How about this?" Jack jutted in. "If you don't have anything useful to say, just shut your fucking mouth? You think that's going to be too difficult?"

"Only if you manage to watch what's coming out of yours," the quarian glared.

"I could renege on what I said to you earlier," Jack warned as she leaned in closer. "I'm not the one you want to antagonize."

"As you have proved to me time and again."

A harsh screeching noise suddenly erupted from the pilot's console, accompanied by a blinking red light. James took his feet off the dashboard, sitting straight up as he began tapping corresponding switches as they activated.

Jack stood from her chair and moved behind James. "What is it? Maintenance alarm?"

James was slow to respond as he flipped up multiple screens, using his finger to trace invisible paths upon maps of three-dimensional space, his lips moving silently at first. "No. _Proximity alarm_."

As soon as he finished the final word, there was a sliver of movement just outside of the canopy. So slight it could have very well been a figment of the imagination. Black on black. A shadow amongst its kin. The alarm was going haywire though, and it was showing that an unknown contact, outlined in red, was rapidly approaching their position.

And it was big. Very big.

It took James a few seconds to realize that several of the stars past the glass were not stars but windows. The lights _moved_ amongst the still backdrop, brief punctures into an enormous shape that eerily overtook the little yacht in moments. It was a _dreadnought_. _Rainier_-class. Spotlamps on the underside of the dreadnought briefly fell upon large steel panels, gunmetal gray, rows and rows of turrets, and several hangar bays for launching fighters. The three were agog as the ship slowly passed by overhead, a dagger amidst the void. A jagged predator, completely armed to the teeth.

Placed light fixtures on the side of the hull prominently made the Alliance logo stand out amidst the coldness of the ship's contours. James stood from his chair, a hand grasping at one of the overhead straps, as his eyes unconsciously tracked the frigate's trajectory. He had heard about the _Rainier_-class dreadnought before but had never seen one in person. It was the newest type of warship the Alliance had built since the war ended. They were said to possess 180 broadside mass accelerator cannons, house six squads of fast-attack fighters, and had two main railguns mounted on both the deck and hull of the ship, the largest sort of non-nuclear ordinance deemed legally permissible in the Milky Way. This thing was a monster. It could kill an entire planet if its commander had a particularly sadistic streak.

The thing was that James had a feeling who the commander of this ship was.

"_This is the SSV Denali to the RRV Sindra_," a voice burst over on the comm. "_You will power down your engines and prepare to be boarded. Try anything and we will exercise only a fraction of our power to turn you into vapor. This is your only warning. You have 60 seconds to comply._"

James nearly slumped back into his chair with a sigh. "The _Denali_," he said. "Huston's ship. How did he find us?"

"Look at it this way," Jack said as she sidled up next to him, similarly looking upon the dreadnought with awe, "it's not choice I would've picked first, but the Alliance is the best way out of this mess. Whatever the Alliance will do to us, it's a lot better than being caught by a PMC or by another corrupt politician."

"You've got it easier than I do," James grumbled through his teeth, a hand now squeezing at his chin. "You didn't have Huston as your superior. You're not going to be the one he wants the explanation from."

"You think there's a better choice?"

His carbonized eyes glanced over at the now-delicate seeming Jack, studying the faint scratches that marked her skin at her cheekbones. "I _wish_ there was a better choice."

"It won't be too bad, marine," Jack laid a hand upon one of James' broad shoulders. "We'll find a way through this. We've gotten this far."

"Don't be so sure," their companion with the synthesized voice sneered.

James and Jack looked over to see Phoria reclining back in her chair. Smug look in her eyes. Hands folded on her lap. Enviro-suit free of wrinkles.

"You're acting pretty arrogant for someone who is about to find themselves in custody," Jack growled.

Phoria gave a dry rasp of a laugh. "Perhaps. Though I wonder if _you_ truly understand what is at stake." Before anyone could ask her to clarify, Phoria dropped her poise and leaned forward almost conspiratorially, voice down to a deathly whisper. "You think this the end of your worries? Mark my words, it is only just beginning. You and I are about to have similar circumstances befall us. Just you watch."

* * *

_SSV Denali_

Six heavily armed Alliance soldiers had been waiting at the end of the docking tube, fully armored and ready for a conflict. James, Jack, and Phoria had slowly eased their way off the _Sindra_, hands raised to show that they were coming on board without weapons. After a quick pat-down, the soldiers escorted the three down the halls of the gigantic warship. It still smelled fresh here, acrid tang of recently welded steel and a sharp note of burned plastic, having just come off the assembly line. Segmented grates marked the pathway from the boarding gate to the top level of the ship. Electrical cabling and fluid conduits ran in circuits overhead, not yet covered by decorative paneling.

James had been on enough Alliance bridges to realize that they all looked exactly the same and had very little, if any, differences that otherwise made them stand out amongst themselves. Rows of technicians and engineer workstations formed a phalanx of sorts before one could reach the commander's position near the main war screen at the far end of the room. The soldiers took James and the others past the war screen, which was currently displaying a galaxy map, and into a side room. Huston was waiting there, his cap upon a desk in front of him, gray hair tightly trimmed upon his craggy face. He was wearing a tight scowl, looking like a dog about to attack. No weapon except for a long combat knife hung from his belt. He had been reading something on a datapad before the soldiers had brought the others in—he deposited it onto the desk with a casual toss before standing.

"Captain Vega," he started as he slowly began to orbit around his desk, his footsteps plodding and deliberate, "I'm sure you understand that I'm in a most vexatious mood. After all, when I provided you with that ultimatum to turn yourself in for a court-martial, I admit I was not anticipating what lengths you would go to in order to avoid a potential mark on your record. Though I almost _don't_ want to hear what possessed you to participate in a full-blown shootout at CytoSystems' headquarters, the killing of N7 personnel notwithstanding. But… adding to my confusion is apparently the fact that Madam Phoria has been travelling with you in a willing capacity. I would advise you not to mince words, Captain. My patience is _dangerously_ thin right at this moment."

James swallowed, finding that the room had gone uncomfortably cold in this moment. Huston was not the sort of person that could be easily intimidated. He stood at nearly James' full height and was almost as broad-shouldered, but the admiral was leaner than James and more finely honed from his additional years of service. This close James could now see the faint lines of scars scaling across the man's neck. Laser surgery had faded most of the damage, but the it was well known that the admiral was one of the most battle-scarred soldiers in the entire military. Huston had been spaced once when his ship had taken a direct hit from enemy fire and had lived through the entire ordeal with a nearly severed leg and an almost fatal cut to the throat after his suit brushed up against the shattered viewport. Noncoms serving under Huston usually whispered that the combination of such events had completely eradicated Huston's sense of humor. A good thing to remember as James would not use such glib comments for this encounter.

James determined that he could not outlast Huston's short fuse. He needed to say something. Anything. "Admiral, under the official Alliance Maritime doctrine, I hereby claim immunity _ratione materiae_ for myself and for Jack on the basis that our conduct was of imperative importance to the Alliance."

He did not notice Jack's eyes squinting to near-closed behind him as a result of her immediate discombobulation with such a statement from his mouth.

"I'll need you to run that by me again," Huston said, the corner of one of his eyes developing a nasty twitch.

"Customary law bestows immunity on those who perform legitimate acts of state, Admiral. My direct orders as a soldier in the Alliance Navy are to protect and to defend humanity's borders, and my rank as a captain in the N7 special forces gives me the scope to carry out my duties as necessary. I will argue that my mandate gave me clearance to pursue my investigation into Phoria'Gula as well as CytoSystems as a whole. If you would like to hear me further explain myself, I will be happy to do so."

It was clear that Huston was not pleased by the string of words that had exited James' mouth, but it was also evident that he was trying to think of what to do next as he had not anticipated this sort of response.

"Functional immunity was not devised as a shield for our soldiers to run rampant across the galaxy, Vega!" he was able to respond, though with a fair amount of frustration as he headed back to his desk.

James nodded, gripped by a sudden boost of confidence. "That may be, sir. But I am prepared to defend myself with such a justification."

Jack gave a nudge to James' side. He glanced over while Huston was not looking. "_'Rationae materiae?_'" Jack breathed.

"_There was a small chapter about it in the Alliance handbook_," James whispered back.

Huston went back to his chair and sat upon it heavily. Resting a hand upon the desk, he clucked his tongue a few times before only his eyes moved to stare back up at the marine. "So…" he growled, "…say I decide to humor you, Captain. For you to claim immunity _ratione materiae_, you will need to tell me the very circumstances that warranted this 'erratic' behavior from you, for lack of a better word. If you can make the case that you truly believed that what you were doing was for the good of the Alliance, I might possibly be able to forestall or even do away with any sentencing that would otherwise besmirch your record."

That was just the opening that James had been hoping for. "I can do better than just explanations," he said as he unclipped a mini-drive from his omni-tool and dropped it onto Huston's desk. "The words of 'Madam' Phoria herself. According to her, the entire merger between CytoSystems and the Alliance was a sham from the get-go. She was being used by an unknown benefactor the whole time. Everything she told Jack and I is on that drive. It proves that there was something inherently wrong with the whole deal and that another party was using it to piggyback itself into the Alliance's supply chain."

Huston reached over and picked up the drive and turned it between his fingers. He then glanced over at Phoria, who had been quiet this entire exchange. "Is this true?" he asked the quarian.

Phoria looked up at James, almost as if she was disappointed that the marine was looking about to hand her over. Then again, that had been the ultimate goal that James had been pursuing this entire time. It was not like this day was going to come as a complete surprise to her.

She nodded. "It is," she simply said.

The admiral's mouth twisted and he let the drive fall from his hand back onto the desk, where it bounced a couple of times before falling still. "Then it looks like your claims might have some merit after all, Captain. Guards, take Phoria'Gula into custody and leave me alone with the captain and his cohort."

The soldiers gave their acknowledgements and gently gripped Phoria by the arm, leading her out of the room and back towards the bridge. Once the final guard had exited, Huston leaned back in his chair and gave a begrudging sigh. "I hope I won't regret rescinding your court-martial, Captain. You take more than your fair share of liberty that comes with your rank."

"Honestly, sir?" James said, "I asked myself what Shepard would do."

"_Shepard_," the word came out as an almost-sneer. "Yes, the poster-child for free reign. Not exactly the sort of role model that I would have you idolize at a time like this. One of these days, I would like to see if you will be able to think for yourself instead of trying to impress someone who is currently not here. But if it's red tape you wish to avoid, Vega, you might want to lobby to have your name considered for the Spectres. I hear they have a few openings."

"I go where my job takes me."

"That's a limp excuse," Huston soured. "People who say that are merely convinced that they're fighting for the preservation of ideals. Let me tell you something, Vega, we are not in the service of ideals. We serve _humanity_—one people—and are responsible for our preservation at any cost. Why do you think the Alliance was interested at all in making a deal with CytoSystems? We simply saw value in their services to help keep humanity safe. It was all business, nothing more."

"A deal rather absent in due diligence, if you ask me," James quipped.

Huston nodded in agreement as he reached into a nearby jar on his desk to grab a sweet before popping it into his mouth. "Yes, I anticipate an inquiry will have to be launched within Alliance Intel in the near future to pinpoint the lapse in judgment here. A dozen analysts in Berlin were poring over this deal and not one of them noticed this. How exactly _did_ you discover that Phoria was being funded by a third party?"

"She admitted as much," Jack stepped in with a sideways glance at James. "CytoSystems' public financial records also gave it away that the company had secretive funding."

Huston gave a wry laugh. "All that in plain sight and still it was missed." Suddenly interested, he turned in his seat to look upon the tattooed woman. "And what of you, Jack? Were you stricken by the same chivalrous streak as our dear captain here or did something else convince you to join him? Your regular duties at Grissom a chore compared to an opportunity like this one?"

Jack's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, which was enough of a sign to James to indicate that she did not like Huston all that much. The admiral did not seem to notice because Jack's expression changed minutely back to her normal resting position.

"The captain asked me for my help," she shrugged. "Said he needed another set of eyes to hopefully catch what he missed. And, he fought under Shepard, same as I did. Hard to ignore a comrade in need with the same type of personal history."

Huston clapped his hands together as he rose from his chair again. "I see Shepard's penchant for uniting disparate people is still coming into play years after his retirement. My thoughts about the man may differ from the consensus but I do have to admire his natural talent for inspiring loyalty." He adjusted a few items on his desk before he straightened his jacket and headed for the door. "I have to apologize as there are several things that I need to attend to before the _Denali_ sets back off, but give me half an hour and I'll be back to tend to your statements. In the meantime, I'll have someone come by to give you food and drink in case you haven't eaten lately."

"Just one question, Admiral," James said as Huston just started to edge by him. The elder man stopped in his tracks and slowly tilted his chin up expectantly, his stony face showing miniscule cracks as he awaited the question. "How did you manage to find us all the way out in deep space?"

Huston cracked a smile, which James found odd because he had never known the admiral to smile like that before. "You think that we happened to chance upon you so far away from a civilized port? We tracked you the old-fashioned way: careful analysis and patience. The _Sindra's_ registration was listed as CytoSystems, an entity. A quick accounting after your firefight at CytoSystems showed that the _Sindra_ was absent from the building. All that we had to do was take the registration papers from the ship and trace them back to the original owner, which was Madam Phoria, Captain. It enabled us to get a lock on its beacon. Now, will you excuse me?"

James took the answer and gave a slow nod. Huston tightened his chin in passing and swiftly walked from the room, leaving his hat tipped up on his desk. A lingering sign that heralded his quick return.

* * *

The corridor that led to the detention cells was slightly too thin for two people to travel abreast. Huston's entire frame nearly took up the width of the hall to the point where he had to shuffle sideways to avoid running over his own men that stood interspaced at every checkpoint. The cell in question that he was searching for was one door out of a hundred, nothing else differentiating it sans the number atop the doorframe. His omni-tool granted him access without him needing to key in any information on the attached pad at the side.

Phoria was waiting in the cell behind a thin curtain of blue barrier light. She looked up as Huston entered, the door silently sliding shut behind him. The quarian straightened upon the bench, the tails of her _sehni_ curling behind her. Phoria's hands were bound in front of her with thick biotic-dampening cuffs. It made no difference that she was not a biotic—that sort of equipment was standard for Alliance prisons.

She lifted her cuffs hands as Huston deactivated the barrier between them, perhaps to prove a point. "I find all this to be unnecessary, don't you?"

"On the contrary," Huston slowly closed the gap between them, "I would think that it helps give a certain authenticity to this spectacle."

"The _spectacle_," Phoria hissed in amusement, eyes camouflaged behind her white visor. "It's all in the presentation for you, isn't it? You get to think up creative ways on how to portray this whole thing while I had to spend more than a week practically a prisoner in my own ship with your two lackeys!"

Huston turned his head away, finding himself unable to look at the quarian in that moment. "Yes, well, if you had taken the proper precautions this whole thing might have been avoided from the start."

"And if you had been actively looking, you would have noticed when I covertly switched the _Sindra's_ secondary beacon on several days ago! It took you until now to come and find me?"

"It is incredibly naïve of you to assume that altering an entire battle group's course is something that can be done at the flick of a switch. Proper planning has to be adhered to in order for this entire thing to come to fruition."

Phoria stood in a fury, wrists taut within her cuffs. "I did everything that was instructed of me," she seethed. "I performed my due diligence prior to enacting this deal with your military. Everything went according to plan—it was only on _your_ end that you failed to hide the public documents that exposed this whole thing as a farce to begin with!"

"The documents belonging to CytoSystems," Huston's tone was dangerously even.

"You know very well that my company would not have been able to alter public documents once they were out in the ether. I was counting on the Alliance to take care of that in my stead as you have the resources to carry out just that!"

Huston absorbed the verbal blows, keeping his own strength sheathed. For now. "When I said there would be a reckoning for Alliance Intel, I meant it, Phoria. There will be hell to pay for whoever allowed this oversight. But for now, tell me about these public documents. What sort of information was exposed on them?"

"Not that much," Phoria shrugged.

The admiral's steel eyes shifted in annoyance as he moved to lean against the cell wall. "Develop that further," he instructed. "If there was nothing in the files to indicate anything particularly unsavory, how was it that the good Captain Vega managed to use them to his advantage?"

"The contents of the files were redacted," the quarian confirmed as she sat back down. "Nothing concrete could be identified from them. But apparently there were portions of the data—areas in which indicated the correct ownership percentages—that were not excised from the files. They didn't reveal the owners of the shares, just the fact that CytoSystems was not under my complete control."

"A shame that it seemed like such a manageable oversight," Huston sighed before he tilted his head, his back still against the wall. "But if we are to continue our work together, I'm going to need to hear exactly what you told Captain Vega and Jack."

* * *

James was puzzled to find out that Huston's office did not come with the same type of amenities that Shepard had enjoyed as a commander of a vessel. Despite Shepard's lower rank and smaller craft, the captain's deck of the _Normandy_ had been as large as a hotel room and had even come with a few accoutrements that would rival it against what the finest hospitality firms would have to offer, the fish tank and the trophy cases being clear examples. Either Huston was an even tidier neat-freak than Shepard was, judging by the fact that the admiral's desk was stark clear of any personal touches, or the _Denali_ was so new that he had not had the time to spruce it up some.

Even so, the office in addition to Huston's quarters were clearly smaller than Shepard's own cabin. The bed, parked off in a smaller room no bigger than a broom closet, was not even queen-sized.

Jack sat next to James in one of the stiffly constructed chairs, her knees pulled up to her chest. "You know," she said, the first thing uttered after a five minute span of silence, "it's kind of fucked, seeing as how we managed to free ourselves of Phoria so easily."

"Almost too easily," James mused as he tried to orient himself into a comfortable position. No such luck, this chair did not even have lumbar support.

"Did you know that that whole immunity thing would actually work?"

James shook his head. "It was the only card I had left to play. Huston wasn't even going to look at the evidence we brought him. He just wanted to see what I could come up right then and there."

Jack raised her head, blinking as she brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "He never _did_ look at the evidence at all, did he?"

Groaning as he got to his feet, James reached over and plucked the tiny drive from where it had remained on Huston's desk, the only object marring its surface. "No… he didn't."

"Don't you think he would have wanted to confirm your statements right away? I mean, if the proof's all there…"

"I can't speak for his thought process," he murmured as he turned the drive over in his hands. "But for him to suddenly trust me when he's never done so before…"

James eyed one of the media slots that had been built into the side of Huston's desk. He walked over, held the drive in his palm for a bit before he plugged it into the proper port. Immediately, Huston's console activated, already unlocked, and a dialogue box popped up after the drive's contents had been read.

_You have ONE file(s) that is already on this drive. Would you like to overwrite?_

The marine completely froze in place as he looked at the alert three times over, certain that there was some mistake. Jack immediately noticed James' face and sat bolt upright, placing her feet back on the floor.

"What's wrong?" she asked, but James was temporarily distracted.

To the console, he said, "Which file on the drive already exists on the local server?"

_Filename: [22140128]-CytoSystems_Shareholder_Distribution_

James slowly backed away from the desk, his face growing grave. "That doesn't make any sense. Huston already has a copy of the financial records?"

"Maybe he thought to do some research of his own after you had mentioned you were doing an investigation?" Jack offered.

The marine turned to his friend, sadness starting to creep into his eyes. Looking at Jack's own expression of confusion, James held a brief sliver of envy, for there were things in this cruel galaxy that she was not aware of that would not eat upon her soul for as long as they had been in James' case.

"I never mentioned to him that I had been looking at the shareholder documents," he said. "The only way he knew I was doing that would be if…" He stopped, a lump halting in his throat uncomfortably. "_Phoria_," he managed to get out before he suddenly lunged for the door, banging through it before it opened all the way.

Alarmed, Jack sprang to her feet and followed the marine out the door, agonized sparks of biotic energy lingering upon the armrests of the chair she had just vacated.

* * *

Phoria had glumly recounted the events of the last few days to Huston with all of the enthusiasm of a condemned man being sent to the gallows. Huston had given noncommittal or otherwise meaningless grunts or sparse prompts for her to expand on something if he felt he had not gotten a good enough picture of the situation. When she had finished, she placed her cuffed hands between her legs and stared up at Huston, waiting for her jailer to announce her sentence.

The admiral took another moment of silence to comprehend what Phoria had just said. "And you mentioned nothing that would compromise the Alliance? That would compromise me?"

Phoria definitively shook her head. "I freely offered nothing to them. All their questions were related to CytoSystems only. Your name never even came up."

"Good. That's good," Huston said idly as he shifted his weight back and forth from foot to foot. He reached over and offered a hand for Phoria to take. He helped the quarian to her feet and gave her space to stretch her limbs. "We'll have to make it seem like we're going to prosecute you," he told her. "You'll have to go with the flow for the time being. You'll keep your mouth shut and in no time a plea deal will be extended to you. You won't serve any jail time or suffer any repercussions. Before long, you'll be back in your position as though nothing has happened."

Phoria raised her cuffed hands, giving the human a look as though she expected him to release her. "I assume you've had to go through something like this before?"

"I've been informed that this is the strategy we're going to take."

"From whom?" Phoria asked before she lowered her voice an octave. "From… _him?_"

Huston faintly nodded, well aware that his face was centimeters away from Phoria's visor. He could almost see the outlines of her face through the smoke-like glass, intrigued at the human-like proportions. _She could almost be one of us, underneath that suit_. "Integration is what he wants," he said evenly. "The first linkage between a private military company and the Alliance is not something to be discounted. You and I are setting the precedent for the future."

The quarian gave a harsh chuckle as she slowly turned to face the rear of the cell, her back to Huston, as if she was looking longingly upon the room. "As long as I get to see the Tranquility through. I was promised that, at least."

"The funny thing is," Huston said from behind her, "that promise was only contingent on your performance."

Phoria was in the process of turning, presumably about to question why Huston would say such a nonsensical thing, when in the next moment, a limb as large as a python abruptly wrapped around the quarian's neck. The woman's cry was immediately strangled as Huston bodily grabbed her, his forearm digging into the side of her throat as his enormous arm snaked completely around her body. There was a ripping sound as Phoria's _sehni_ tore. Her cuffed hands tried to beat the admiral's arm away, but in her restrained state she could not even touch him, let alone reach him. Her feet wildly kicked in mid-air, banging into the metallic walls loudly, terrified moans and grunts rushing through her throat in a sheer panic.

There was a soft sound, almost liquid, of metal rubbing across a felt surface. The quarian's eyes opened wide as she felt another line of pressure touch upon her neck. Huston's arm forced her head upward, exposing her taut throat.

The pressure at her neck turned into white-hot pain before it blistered into a searing chill. There was a bubbling sound followed by a gush. It sounded like someone had spilled a large glass of water down Phoria's front.

In her pained confusion, Phoria tried to mumble a cry for help, but it only came out as a pathetic gurgle. To her alarm, something warm was billowing up her throat. She coughed out a thick and hot liquid, spraying the interior of her visor with a dark substance.

Blood. She was coughing out her own blood.

Her mouth was filled with the taste of iron. It was now spilling from her mouth freely, gurgling down her chin as her breaths suddenly became shorter and shorter. Now she finally understood what had happened and just how deep Huston's betrayal had been set.

The pain did not cease as it felt like teeth were gnawing anxiously at her larynx. But as her breath continued to lessen, and the blood still dribbled from the corners of her mouth, her brain was able to come to a sad conclusion just as she lost her ability to speak.

Her throat had been slit wide open.

Now tears flowed down her face as she realized she was going to die. Her lips continued to fumble as she mewled and blubbered, deliriously repeating a plea for her life over and over and over in her head. Her throat felt raw and her vision was starting to gray. Phoria realized that the blood in her brain was draining. She would lose consciousness in the next few seconds.

She did not notice as Huston's arms finally released her from his grip. She did get a final glimpse of the knife, stained with her blood, softly glinting in the low light as it moved away from her. Her legs lost all control and she began to pitch forward, her center of gravity nonexistent. The ground raced upward to catch her, everything travelling in slow motion. There was a startlingly large pool of blood at her feet. Her shin guards had already been stained red. Had that all come from her? The answers would not come as she rushed downward to collapse right in the center of the lake, to drown in her own spilled life.

"_It would have been better for you if you had not said anything at all_," she heard Huston say, though his voice sounded from far-away as if he had shouted it across an ocean.

The approaching pool of blood beckoned in her deteriorating view before the darkness finally swallowed her.

* * *

James knocked aside several armed guards as he raced down the stairs towards the detention level, Jack hot on his heels. The man practically bounced from wall to wall, unable to halt his momentum in time as he scrambled through the dreadnought's endless corridors, trying desperately not to get lost along the way.

He rounded the corner and came face to face with a hall riddled with doors of the same make and size with exactly three feet of wall separating the two. No names were displayed on the front of the thresholds, just numbers. James did not notice his breath growing shorter and shorter as his eyes raced in his sockets, trying to locate some hint as to where Phoria's whereabouts were.

James was so absorbed in his searching that he did not notice Jack calling his name from behind him. Nor did he notice the two special forces soldiers that jumped out of a nearby enclave in time, weapon stocks already fitted against their shoulders.

"_Contacts in sight. Engaging_," one said. "_Non-lethal rounds only_."

In an instant, James' battle instincts took over. Hands dropped down to his side only to fumble at a holster that was empty. In a panic, he glanced downward. He had completely forgotten that his weapons had been confiscated upon boarding the ship.

"Shit," was all he could say.

There were two flashes from the guns and James felt something small strike him on the chest. In the next second, electric sparks fizzled from the stun probe that had embedded into his body through his shirt, overloading his nervous system and sending him spinning to the ground. A similar thump next to him told him that Jack had been hit as well.

He blacked out, but just for a moment. In that moment, his eyes had felt like they had been pinned down with heavy weights, his thoughts momentarily vanishing in that time span. James came to on the floor, drooling all over the grate. Jack was groaning as she lay on her back, limbs limply trying to support herself but lacking the strength to do so. They spasmed upon the ground, delusional and short of breath.

Blurry eyes revealed a broad shape marching through the sudden phalanx of soldiers that had appeared in the corridor. His vision cleared to reveal Huston in his prim and proper uniform, only that his left arm appeared to have been splattered with something resembling… blood.

The cold and unfortunate truth speared into his head with an agonizing throb.

"_Ph… Phoria?_" he croaked, his tongue feeling like it had swelled to twice its size in his mouth. He feared he already knew the answer. "_Where's…?_"

The admiral shook his head, his fingers unconsciously brushing the handle of the knife that was sheathed at his hip. "Met with an unfortunate accident. Seems we forgot to confiscate one of her blades when she was brought on board. She decided to take the easy way out rather than face the consequences of her actions."

The lie was so bald-faced that James would have croaked out a laugh, if the barbed stun probe had not been overloading his muscular system, twisting his face into contorted expressions. For god's sake, Huston was still wearing Phoria's blood on his sleeve yet he was talking as if his outfit was pristine.

"_You_…" he had to mumble through thick lips, "…killed… her."

A faint smile touched the edges of Huston's mouth, as though as if James had just cracked a light joke. He kneeled next to the marine, eyes slowly moving from him to Jack, satisfied that neither of them would be getting out with those probes stuck into their chests. He remained within James' reach, but as much as the younger man's arms were sliding along the ground, desperate to reach even the admiral's shoes, James still lacked the strength to even pick up a feather.

"If that were true," Huston dipped his head before he slowly looked back up, "who would believe such a story from you if it's against _my_ word? Phoria just couldn't hack it, but you might still have a chance. Time to see if you're more agreeable to our point of view, Captain."

Gauntleted hands clawed at James' shoulders, hauling him up. Similar grunts told him that Jack was being lifted as well. The marine tried to hack up a globule of spit towards the admiral but someone shoved a black felt bag over his head before he could complete the action, stuffing him into a vacuum and abandoning him to the silence.

* * *

**A/N: Anyone get a chance to play Ori and the Will of the Wisps yet? Having a blast with it so far. It's not like I don't have any free time these days, what with the current state of the coronavirus and all. Hope everyone's staying safe out there.**

**Playlist:**

**Skycar Race**  
**"Black-Blue-White"**  
**Wang Chung**  
**To Live And Die In L.A. (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Throat Slitting/Futile Rescue**  
**"Kingdom of the Flies - The Final Standoff"**  
**Ludvig Forssell**  
**Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	23. Chapter 23: Boundaries

"_Mass Effect 2 supports a variety of play styles, except for kamikaze. You'll quickly find that charging an enemy, especially on higher difficulties, will be a surefire way to get yourself killed. That is both not a legitimate strategy in real life and not a legitimate strategy in this game."_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual (2010)_

* * *

_SSV Denali_

Fat beads of water dribbled off the matte black blade of the knife as Huston held it under the faucet. The bottom of the sink was spattered with thin tendrils of red. The blood had mostly dried upon the knife already and was slowly seeping towards the drain—Huston had to use soap and a sponge to scour the knife's surface clean.

Once that was finished, the only lingering sound in the bathroom was the faint gurgle of liquid that emanated from the deep recesses of the piping up through the drain. Huston cradled the knife in his hands, holding it almost as if it were a scepter for a king to scoop up and bash some malfeasant's head with.

The knife itself was nothing extraordinary. It was a standard-issue MK21. Laser cut blade, black Sytec coating, Westernized tanto shape made out of stainless steel, and an ergonomic handle that was ambidextrous to boot. All incoming grunts were handed one of them as part of their basic training. They were more common than toothbrushes. On the blade itself were etched both "MK21" and the Alliance supply number. All in all, an utterly unremarkable weapon.

The blade had not belonged to Huston initially. When he had first joined the service, extraterrestrial contact had not even been established yet. They were still handing out Ka-Bars and KM2000s back then depending on which region one signed up for the service on Earth. This particular knife, the MK21 had begun production decades later, and had first been given to Huston's son, Mark, when _he_ had signed up shortly after that fateful day of first contact had occurred.

_Mark_. Thinking about the boy threatened to tear open Huston's grieving process. His son had been destined for great things, but Huston's plans for the young man had been upended too early, too suddenly.

Mark had been killed two months before the Reaper War started in full. Shot during a military raid gone wrong in which his company boarded a ship trespassing in restricted space. The ship had been carrying private army contractors and they had been too undisciplined to surrender in the face of overwhelming odds. They had opened fire on the first Alliance soldiers they saw. Mark's body had been too mangled for an open-casket funeral. His knife was the only item on his person that had not withstood any damage from that encounter.

Huston had always been bitter at the unfair timing of his son's passing. Mark had been lost before there had been any chance to make a name for himself. No opportunity to carve his own history through glorious battle. Whatever commendations Huston himself had racked up, they were only painful reminders that his son was missing out on these chances too, chances he would knowingly have used to have made his father proud, to carry on the Huston legacy of producing able-bodied heroes for humanity.

It was perhaps a daily occurrence when Huston reflected what kind of a man his son would prove to be during the war. Would he have used those fateful moments to find fire within his heart and to show his species what bravery and courage could look like if they embodied a person to the full? Or would he have faltered in place, as so many did, upon first glance at the machine demons that emanated from the dark? Huston liked to believe that Mark would have been in the former camp, though he knew there would never be a way to be completely sure.

Another memory he had been robbed of.

The knife had remained on Huston's person after he took possession of it, knowing that Mark would have wanted it to remain in service with a family member. And what better member to hold such a weapon than his own father? Huston was proud to carry his son's knife, though he had never had a chance to draw it in battle. He had spent the majority of the war from behind a viewport, or hunkered in a battleship's war room at the far end of a solar system. At no point did he ever set his boots on solid ground to participate in land combat at all. No, his specialty was in the void. In space. Where his skills could be put to their best use.

Perhaps today was the first time the knife had ever actually tasted blood. That metal had no other moments to latch itself onto. Today was its official christening, apparently.

It had been a long time since Huston had killed someone. In person, at least. He had certainly never done it with a knife, let alone slit someone's throat in cold blood. Huston had been shocked at how easy it all was—it felt like the blade, pristine from never being used, had simply glided across Phoria's throat. One second of movement and it was all done for the quarian. Watching the dying body of Phoria twitch at his feet, Huston was slightly alarmed by the fact that he should at least feel _something_ for what he had done to this woman, except there had been nothing. An absence of emotion. He had been left stark quiet all the way through when the light left the quarian's eyes. In a way, it had been interesting watching her pass. Being behind the command of a dreadnought for most of his career, he only saw death when he razed the hull of an enemy frigate. A spectacular explosion or a gentle puff of pyrotechnics. Magnificent to look at, but oddly impersonal.

The knife went back into Huston's sheath as he walked back to his desk in his office. The lights had gone down to set a stark contrast amongst the shadows of the room. It was as if the room was taking great pains to remind him of its overall austerity. The admiral sank into his chair, a hand rubbing the bridge of his nose as he was contemplating his next moves. He already knew what was going to happen in the next few minutes, but he certainly was not looking forward to it all that much.

He had to boot up his console to locate the address he was told never to use, except in extreme circumstances. Huston figured this was one of those circumstances. With one hand, he typed in the lengthy QED channel to his personal screen and pressed the connect button, making sure to sit up straight right as he did so.

It took a minute for the call to connect. The holopad in the center of Huston's desk began to glow an eerie blue. A figure about a foot tall materialized upwards from the lens, spider-like limbs all moving independent of one another and a head that only manifested a singular and frightening glow, obscuring whatever nonexistent facial features its body possessed.

"_Ah, Admiral_," the Cardinal folded two of her hands together eagerly, as if this call had been a pleasant surprise. Her head dipped downward menacingly. "_You had been instructed to not use this address. Declare your reasons for breaking protocol._"

"I need to speak to him," Huston said gruffly, hoping the cyborg would note the usage of "need" instead of "speak." As an admiral, his command generally demanded immediate results, no matter the affiliation.

The Cardinal did not seem to be impressed or intimidated. "_You may speak to me instead_."

Huston's expression darkened. "What I have to say concerns him alone."

"_I will relay your 'concerns' to him after our conversation concludes, if I determine that it does require his consideration._"

Huston did not like the way this creature was speaking to him, especially with its usage of the word "if". It was as if the Cardinal was deriving some tormented pleasure from denying him his wishes. Sad to say, she was the one who held all the power in this case, not him. Huston had the inclination that he should press his case again, but he figured that the Cardinal could merely deactivate the call and cut him off from this line permanently if she felt that he was wasting her time. He needed to play along.

"The… timeline of his program has run into some setbacks," he began, staring intently at the top of his desk as he talked.

"_Describe these setbacks_."

"Fostering the relationship between the Alliance and the company he selected—CytoSystems—did not manage to escape attention. I just learned today that individuals within the Alliance managed to locate irregularities in the deal both by combing through the public financial records and from open conversation with CytoSystems' CEO."

"_How unfortunate_." The Cardinal did not seem all that choked up. "_It had been assured to us that there were no weak links in this chain._"

It took everything Huston had to not screw up his face in distaste. "I know. I was assured of the same thing as well. I have already begun taking steps at rectifying these lapses. The individuals who learned of this program's true intentions have been detained."

"_And the CEO? If they revealed any information, they must be disposed of_."

"That has already been handled," Huston affirmed with a grim nod. "You won't be having a problem with her from now on."

The figure of the Cardinal seemed to unfurl like a flower at the touch of dawn. "_Proactive of you_."

"And the fact that others could somehow learn of what he has planned?"

"_Irrelevant. Everything is already in motion. It is too late to stop the Tranquility. Others may foolishly try to stymie the oncoming tide, but they will soon realize that their strength cannot hope to match the power behind the wave_."

The Cardinal's proclivity to speak in metaphors irked Huston somewhat. He tended to attend a more blunt and pragmatic school of thought. This cyborg was showing off a more flowery language either in an attempt to seem worldly and more intelligent, or to otherwise convey her displeasure at having to communicate in such basic and guttural phrases with the human.

Huston leaned back in his chair, brows lowered in distaste as he steepled his hands together. "I assume that your master is still planning to uphold the deal that he brokered with us?" A cruel smile reached his face. "Or is that something that you're not privy to?"

The Cardinal was unwavering in the face of the subtle slight. "_I am aware of what accords he proclaimed for your benefit. You will be pleased to know that he has no intention of modifying them_."

"Yes, but," Huston leaned forward, his façade cracking a bit, as he tried to scrutinize any vestige of humanity he could from the cold embrace of whatever chassis was holding the Cardinal's organs in place, "what he's doing now… seems almost antithetical from his desired outcome. A mere duplication of his own efforts, to be precise. If you don't already know, ask him what maintaining these relationships between PMCs and the Alliance is expected to accomplish. The corporations are already sowing disharmony in the galaxy, undoing what we're trying to hold together, and I know he's the one behind their financial backing. Behind nearly every single PMC. It can only be him. All of this manufactured chaos has been from his making from the very start. If his Tranquility is somehow the answer to this disharmony, why all the tradecraft?"

There came a derisive chuckle from the Cardinal, one that Huston felt was a taunt aimed squarely at him.

"_It is not up to me to describe what our lord has concocted, human. Simply feel assured that the Tranquility is, above all else, an equation. An equation that balances all the variables into one single and harmonious whole, which takes care to include any variables that you might not have regarded… or were otherwise unable to cogitate_."

Now Huston knew that the Cardinal was openly insulting him.

"And what might those variables be?" Huston asked, feeling his face grow hot.

"_Those that might exist beyond your singular view_," the Cardinal said. "_The Tranquility is a means to an end. We have our parts to play in the ensuing aftermath—it has been planned out accordingly. We are all pieces on a game board being moved into our optimal positions. You are one such piece, as are the salarians, the asari, the turians, and every one of the species you can imagine_."

Huston's mind went momentarily adrift. "Every one of… you've been _repeating_ your efforts for all the other races?"

"_Of course!_" was the Cardinal's matter-of-fact response. "_Did you think that CytoSystems was the first corporation we introduced to a galactic government as part of a system-wide integration? Did you think humanity was special because of the supposed precedent that deal would set? All part of the plan, human. Call this a little… friendly competition amongst allies. After all, to achieve the greatest probability of harmony, there must be an equal amount of disharmony before it can take hold_."

Huston's next instinct was to press the cyborg for more information, but the Cardinal simply cackled before one of her many arms moved to touch a control just out of view of the lens. "_Do not fret about this turn of events, human. You are not as special as you want to believe._"

With a wink of sapphire light, the image of the Cardinal evaporated into thin air, leaving Huston behind with his heart pounding furiously as he stared helplessly at the empty space.

* * *

_Factory District__  
The Citadel_

Of all the places that Shepard would rather avoid on the Citadel, the Factory District was certainly high on his list. This was not a section of the station that had been all gussied up to potentially invite foot traffic for commerce, this was the part of the Citadel that was specifically devoted to manufacturing, shipping, and development towards most of the stages on a product's supply chain. Otherwise known as a visual blight upon the very station it inhabited, though it was necessary in order for the millions of people to live their lives as it did provide a solid number of stable jobs and helped maintain the Citadel's reputation as a nexus for fair trade.

There were endless plateaus of levelled cargo ports with automated cranes whisking all over the place, carting crates of cargo from endpoint to endpoint. Towers upon towers of these crates created mock skylines that served as impenetrable walls for those that stood down at their bases. The district was a maze of several hangar bays that acted as glorified repositories for the cargo, all interlinked by a webbing of walkways that stretched out like threads of black silk.

The shipping process here was entirely automated—armed drones patrolled the perimeters of each company's respective dock. Squabbles between the shipping companies had become something of a staple from port to port over the years. Fighting over valuable contracts led to desperate acts such as the sabotaging of cargo. Thus, a more aggressive defensive cordon had gradually been deemed acceptable as a means to prevent any transgressions.

Fortunately, Shepard did not have to get himself embroiled into that type of infighting. Flanked by Garrus and Grunt, the three of them had been heading down a long alley, approaching one of the few bars for dockworkers on this level, well away from the drones though still deep within the maze of cargo containers. The alley here was thin, draped by colorful graffiti, with puddles of multicolored liquids dripping down from the tall walls that acted as brief obstacles to be traversed.

The bar had no signage indicating its name as the trio arrived at the threshold. They stepped inside somewhat hesitatingly, abruptly finding themselves parked in the middle of a cramped and fairly populated establishment. It reminded Shepard of those old-time saloons he saw in the films as a kid. Barely washed floors, stained counter tops, seedy-looking people of all shapes and sizes crowded over drinks, cards, or lost in a cloud of vapor. Conversation was loud and boisterous. Several vidscreens hovering around the main areas were showing the various sports games taking place around the galaxy. The sound of money being slapped onto the table was noticeable as bets were laid and lost.

A holo-placard on a front-facing pillar caught Shepard's attention.

FIREARMS STAY HOLSTERED, it read. DRAW FIRST, WE DRAW ON YOU.

Shepard squinted his eyes as he peered around the place, finding it to be an appropriately dreadful tavern. "You're sure we'll be able to learn something here?" he asked Garrus.

"According to C-Sec chatter, this is a well-known spot for PMC contractors to hang out," Garrus said as he walked up to stand beside Shepard. "And there have been rumors that people affiliated with Dark Horizon have visited this bar. We'll need to ask around."

"Carefully," Shepard said as he noticed a pair of asari in Zephyr Services armor over in a nearby corner start to compare their wicked looking combat knives. "No telling who we'll run into in this place."

"That's why we brought our krogan along," Garrus smirked as he tapped Grunt's enormous arm.

Grunt gave a noise of acknowledgement as he was mentally sizing everyone up, his nerves on edge in preparation for someone to start something foolish. It would certainly take a fool to come up against someone like Grunt—the alien was probably the tallest one in this bar by about a full head.

Shepard nodded. "I'll take the bartender," he said as he already headed in that direction.

The main bar was backlit by dark red bulbs so intense they washed out every other color. Liquor bottles rimming the back shelves all looked the same, as did their contents, underneath such a vivid hue. A turian manned the counter, his facepaint slightly glowing from the UV lights implemented in the fixtures. His eyes glanced upward as he saw Shepard coming over, an unsurprised look on his face.

"Fix you a drink, Commander?" the bartender asked as soon as Shepard was within earshot.

Shepard frowned in surprise. He did not think his appearance would be recognized so easily. Most of the casual feeds from his days in the limelight during the war showed him clean-shaven, clad in his heroic N7 armor, and his hair had been shorn and cropped close to his skull. Right now, he was dressed in a casual jacket, eyepatch around his head, and he had let the hair of his goatee and head grow out some and look shaggy, colored nearly stark white from radiation poisoning. A far cry from his glory days, he figured.

The turian snuck a grin as he noticed Shepard's befuddled expression. "Come on, you think that you'd be able to sneak around the Citadel as you are? I bet most of us had you pegged the moment you stepped in here. But if you'd rather not have any attention drawn your way, we'll all comply." The bartender then straightened after he sensed that Shepard had gotten the message. "Now, do you want a drink or not?"

The commander narrowed his eyes before shrugging. One drink certainly could not hurt and it was bad form to refuse one in a bar anyway.

"Bourbon in ice," he said. "A clean glass would also be preferable."

The drink was offered to him after Shepard had settled out his tab. He tried to inspect the bourbon itself but the stupid red lighting was so overwhelming that he could not tell if he had been given liquor or engine coolant. He took a careful sip. Dark, smoke, and oak. Some relief, at least. He let the bourbon rest on his tongue until the alcoholic burn had passed. His gullet felt warmed already after the first swallow.

The bartender was eyeing Shepard throughout this period of time, perhaps savoring this moment in getting to see a bona fide hero in the flesh. "Looking for information, I take it?"

Again, this turian seemed to be clairvoyant to Shepard. "Perhaps. What makes you say that?"

The bartender seemed almost offended at the question. "Why else would you be down here, Shepard? Away from civilization and order? People like you would only come here either to find something on the unofficial channels if C-SEC isn't able to provide."

"Very well," Shepard set his half-drained glass down on the counter. "I'm looking for information on a PMC."

"Looking to hire one?"

"Just intel gathering," Shepard emphasized firmly. "One in particular's caught my interest. Dark Horizon. Heard of them?"

The turian shrugged, the movement nearly unnoticeable in the low light. "Couldn't really say. They all start to sound the same sooner than you'd think. You know that a new private military gets incorporated every week? At the same time, another one goes under. Too many names to keep up with, Shepard. My priority here is to pour drinks, not act as an information broker."

"All the same, I've heard Dark Horizon's supposed to be pretty notorious."

"They _all_ like to say that," the turian snorted. "How do you think these firms like to attract business? By marketing themselves as the toughest and the nastiest outfit around. Folks that hire a PMC may be looking to get a job done first and foremost, but a big reason why they hire them is all based on their perceived reputation. When you're part of a PMC, you're now involved in the galaxy's deadliest popularity contest. There's all sorts of backstabbing and roundabout politics that have infected every single one of them. Not a nice business, but for some reason, many in that industry find their way here. Don't know, maybe they see this as a haven of sorts. A place to relax without feeling like someone is going to knife them in the back. I've found that it's best for me if I just stay in the background, pour the drinks, and let everyone else carry on with their lives."

Shepard tapped his fingers on the counters, his lone eye tracking the mirrored back wall of the bar, partly to check in case anyone _was_ sneaking up behind him to knife him in the back. "And if I was inclined to find out more, anyway?"

The bartender squinted before he lifted a mottled finger, pointing towards an eclectic group of mercenaries situated around a circular table behind Shepard. "You might try your luck with them. They keep their ears open to that sort of business."

"Appreciate it."

Picking up his drink, the commander followed the direction the bartender had indicated, now approaching the table in question. A particularly grizzled human with a magnificent salt-and-pepper mustache sat with his back to the wall, a batarian and another turian flanking him. They all wore armor of differing colors indicating their respective outfits. The three were playing cards—a pile of credits gleamed underneath a singular lamp, spilled between the triangle of drinks that had been arranged between them. The human mercenary's eyes glanced upward as Shepard came up to them, interest lining his face.

"Evenin', Commander," the man gave a solemn nod. He was chewing the end of a ragged-looking cigar. A careful wisp of pungent smoke extended from the lit end.

Shepard's mouth thinned. The bartender had been correct when he had mentioned that he had most likely been pegged from the outset.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he began, making sure to look at everyone in the eye as he slowly rotated his gaze.

"Help you with something?"

"I certainly hope so." Shepard took an empty chair at the table and proceeded to occupy it, but not before setting his half-empty glass of bourbon in front of him. "That is, if you know the answers to the questions I have."

The mercenary let out a puff of smoke. "Depends on the questions."

"Say I wanted to locate a PMC. One that operates in all black armor. Goes by the name of Dark Horizon. Would that fall under the purview of what you know?"

No one at the table immediately spoke. The salarian munched on a Benzedrine pill. The turian inhaled a vial of spice dust. The human considered the question as he momentarily laid his cards down. "Information's not gratis under this roof."

"I can pay."

"I don't doubt it. But the tradition here is to _earn_ the information before it is distributed. Handing over credits isn't enough."

Shepard smiled. "A code of honor, then. All right, any suggestions on what I can do to _earn_ what I'm looking for?"

The mercenary shrugged. He then reached over to the card deck, took the two top cards, and slid them over to Shepard. "Win a hand."

The commander's fingers touched the offered cards, but he did not look at them just yet. He had the sense that this was the lead in to a trap of some kind, but he was being driven more by curiosity than by actual alarm right now.

"That's it?"

"That's it," the mercenary affirmed.

Shepard kept himself statuesque for five whole seconds before he gave a brief dip of his head. A silent agreement. "Very well," he said as he straightened in his seat. "What are we playing?"

"Local hold 'em. You ready?"

Truth be told, Shepard's specialty was in Skyllian-Five poker and it had been years since he had been in a real match. He knew the rules to both variants quite well, though the real challenge would be in figuring out his opponents' strategies. This was not like blackjack in which a little luck was required to win a certain hand—poker called upon a type of mindset that actively worked to guard one's reactions and approaches. Having the best hand right out of the pocket would not guarantee a win, which was why these variants were so popular to begin with.

"Go ahead," Shepard said.

The human mercenary handed out cards in turn to the other players. Shepard reached into his pocket and produced a modest stack of credits, showing that his presence at the table was indeed warranted now that he had the money to play.

Shepard glanced at his cards. Four of spades and king of hearts. Not a great hand but not a terrible one either. He was the big blind so he had to put credits in either way. He tossed the required amount into the pot. Everyone else at the table called. The flop was then displayed in the center of the table—Shepard had a match with his kings but not much else.

"New sort of business you're into, Shepard," the human merc observed, his eyes locked on his cards. "Heard you've been taking an interest in corporations. Seems you're not on speaking terms with them, though."

"New wars bring out new foes," Shepard answered as he checked, keeping his money where it was. "We all have to make a change sometime."

The hand was now at the salarian, who also checked. The human mercenary considered his hand before he tossed in a hundred credits. "Change is a good way to put it. We've all been hit by it. The jobs we once had have dried up, if not obliterated by the bastard Reapers. Lot of good folks needed to make some cash once the dust settled. Decent, _hard-working_ folk. You planning on going after them too?"

The batarian called after a moment's hesitation. Shepard pretended to mull his choice over before he too tossed in his chips. "The individuals aren't the concern. It's the larger picture."

The mercenary stabbed the air with his cigar with a wary smile. "The larger picture still affects the individual, Shepard. Dissolve one company, you put thousands of those decent, hard-working men and women out of business. Some of us have these companies as our only link to a stable income. Myself, I was a marine for a good portion of my life. Mustered out after the war but realized the job market was scarce because the infrastructure had not been repaired enough yet. Company called Renn Affiliates said they were hiring ex-military members and would pay handsomely." The man nudged the batarian next to him. "Tell the commander how _you_ got involved."

"MGH Communications," the batarian grunted. "Joined after the Hegemony folded. They offered me 5,000 credits a week."

Everyone then looked to the salarian, who piped up, "Sandbridge Corporation came to me when the war ended. 300,000 solar year salary."

The human merc then spread his hands wide in a large shrug. "We all thought the paydays were too good to be true. We shut our faces once we saw the increments to our accounts, though."

The turn, once displayed, did not help Shepard's hand any. He still raised anyway, half-paying attention to the movements his hands were making while he was listening to the other members at the table.

"If Dark Horizon isn't affiliated with either one of your companies," Shepard said, "then what's the risk in helping me out?"

The mercenary smirked. "Never know what consequences might come down the line. It's a volatile business, private security."

_Yeah, no kidding._

The river was the queen of spades. Shepard looked down at his hand and saw that the only thing he could hope to have on the table was his initial pair of kings. Considering what else was left, there was a good possibility that someone had a straight or even a three-of-a-kind. Shepard folded and slid his cards into the discard pile.

None of the others derived any pleasure from Shepard's fold. This was poker, folding was not a sign of weakness. The other three bet and called one another before showing their cards. There was an initial rise of chatter as they all worked out which hands had prevailed and which ones had not.

"You went all the way with _that_ hand?" the human was humorously chiding the batarian as he scraped the pot over to his side. "Dumb bastard."

The batarian stood up from the table and left, muttering indiscriminately. No doubt he was feeling miserable because he had just lost all his money. The human merc watched him leave and blew a silent laugh from the corner of his mouth. He looked back at Shepard and bumped his eyebrows. "Another hand?"

Shepard nodded as his eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm in."

The cards were dealt out accordingly. Shepard had been given a four and a jack of diamonds this time. He set the cards face-down in front of him without changing his expression. He studied the faces of his opponents. The salarian had a little twitch down in his lower lip and his index finger was shaking ever so slightly. Agitated at being given such a crap hand or simply ecstatic from the anticipation of such a good hand right out of the gate? Hard to tell. The other human was more subdued with his reaction. His eyes were calm and controlled. Nothing about him could be easily read. Shepard felt he had to watch out for him most of all.

The human merc matched the big blind that had been set by the salarian. Shepard did so as well but added two hundred extra credits to the pot. A raise.

"Think you have something there?" the human's eyebrows rose.

_Maybe that's just what I want you to think_, Shepard thought, but did not say it out loud. Any statement could potentially give his opponents an edge here. All one had to do was to decipher the underlying intent inherent in each word, each inflection. Words could be one's Achilles heel in a poker match. The talkative tended to burn out quick.

The merc noted the commander's silence and called after the salarian had folded his hand. Now the flop was splayed out in front of them. Three of diamonds, king of clubs, and ace of spades. It was the merc's turn to start the betting—his eyes were particularly focused on Shepard's chips. His lips moved silently in a quiet count. He then took a significant chunk of credits from his own pile and slid it over to the pot.

"One thousand seventy credits," he stated. "That'll be all-in for you."

Shepard did not bother looking at his cards, noticing that both Garrus and Grunt had gravitated over to the table to watch the match in interest. They said nothing to Shepard, keeping their attention focused upon the table, as if that had become the whole world to them.

A clatter of credits and Shepard shoved his entire stack into the pot. "All-in, then."

"Showdown."

Shepard flipped over his cards at the same time the merc did. The commander's opponent had a two of hearts and a four of clubs. Shepard's pulse made a minute raise upon noticing that the merc needed only a five in order to get a straight. Right now, Shepard did not have anything that could possibly win this hand.

The human mercenary did not let cockiness come to his face just yet, but there was a slight shift of impishness that faintly crossed his features. He then dealt out the turn, which was a seven of diamonds. Shepard leaned forward in anticipation. Now they were both one card away from obtaining hand values of their own. The air around the table had seemingly gone electric. Both opponents grew quiet, realizing the futility of levelling simple taunts at one another, a childish pastime. A low thrum occupied the lower recesses of Shepard's ears. He breathed in and out, nice and easy.

"Ready?" the merc asked, his hand hovering over the deck.

Shepard smiled. "Yeah," he said.

The river was flipped over and displayed. Hushed murmurings of admiration passed in a low ripple around the table. A pregnant pause stilled Shepard's heart, only subsiding when he was finally able to ascertain what was in front of him.

Five of diamonds.

Shepard had gotten the flush.

The human mercenary was chuckling in approval as he lightly tipped his cards away. He had gotten a straight, but that had not been enough to counter Shepard's hand. He gestured towards the pot, indicating that for the commander to take. No stern feelings of disappointment registered on his face—sometimes playing in a particularly intense match was a reward enough for those whole lived their whole lives behind a deck of cards.

"Well fought," the man congratulated. "You have a lucky streak about you, Shepard."

The commander tried not to let his eyes display his cold exhilaration as he scraped all the credits towards him. "Not just for me. Neither of us had anything until that last card."

"Yes, but you stood to lose a whole lot more if the cards hadn't come up the way they did."

Shepard sagely nodded. "Dark Horizon. What do you know?"

The mercenary looked up at the ceiling, as if the overhead sprinklers were of particular interest, before he stubbed out his half-burnt cigar into the ash tray in front of him. His eyes then shifted over to a stark corner of the bar, his chin surging downward in a subtle bob of his head. Shepard followed the merc's gaze and spotted a man at the bar, hunched over a small glass. The man was dressed in combat pants and a flight jacket. His hair was cut very short to his head, but with his back turned, Shepard could not see any distinguishing features.

"He's affiliated as they get," the merc affirmed.

Shepard turned back to his card opponent. "What makes you so sure?"

"Seen him around from time to time. Yahoos occasionally try to proposition him to have a chance with his outfit. Never have a chance, you see—the private military he's associated with is exclusive. They don't just let anyone in. 'Dark Horizon' is the name that gets thrown around whenever this guy's in the place. You want to find out more? He's your best bet."

Shepard had to admit that this whole code of being quite unforthcoming with information in this place would be more of a hindrance if he had less patience for dealing with this sort of thing. He accepted this new tack of knowledge in stride, now proceeding to collect all his credits and his drink before heading back over to the bar to talk with this mystery person. He gave a motion of his head to Garrus and Grunt, who followed him over.

It was still difficult to get a good picture of this person as Shepard approached. This man's flight jacket looked like it had a stiff endoskeleton underneath to give it more angular contours. Two submachine guns were strapped at his waist, shadowed by the dim lights. Shepard kept his footsteps silent as he approached the Dark Horizon mercenary, but his target's head perked up once he was within a few feet of him anyway.

"Not hiring," the man grunted, his voice light and raspy.

"Not networking," Shepard responded as he took a last swallow of his bourbon before he set the now empty glass down on the counter. "But I am interested in what you do."

The man rotated on his stool, giving Shepard his first look at him, and straightened once he realized who he was talking to. "Had a feeling there'd be someone asking me these questions one day. Never thought it would be someone like you, Shepard."

He was an unremarkable example of a human that Shepard could imagine. The man had pale skin, a square face with a strong jaw that resembled something akin to a troll. There was little humor that lived within his gaze. He very well looked as if he could have been chiseled out of stone. The flesh of his face was unscarred, odd for someone in the employ of such a vicious outfit. Shepard's eyes flicked immediately over the man's head, where several ornate logos of the various PMCs had been hung. Strange trappings for an equally strange bar.

Shepard felt safe as he had the implicit notion that Garrus and Grunt were moving closer behind him, providing ample support. "You part of Dark Horizon?"

"Perhaps," the man said.

"It's a simple yes or no question."

The man shrugged. "Policy for Dark Horizon contractors is to not advertise their assignments."

"Yet somehow these people know who you're with." Shepard gestured around the bar.

"Can't speak for them. Sometimes people can let their imagination get away from them," the man retorted.

_Not very forthcoming, this one_, Shepard sourly thought. He then noted the man's complexion, his sturdy face unwavering underneath the harsh glow of the bar. "You ever spend time in the service?"

"When I came of age."

"When was that?"

"2195."

"Then you weren't in the war if you were that young," Shepard noted.

The man took on a far-away look in his eyes, turning suddenly pensive. After a careful sip of his glass, he folded his hands together, as if this was something that had immediately made him uncomfortable. "Missed out, is all. Just unfortunate timing on my end. All the conflicts had been rectified by the time I was old enough to pick up a gun."

"Felt that there was more action to be had in a private military?"

"Of sorts," the man shrugged. "There was an opportunity, let's say."

Shepard continued to study the person he was talking with, something about him making the commander feel quite uneasy. "Was there? It looks like you've avoided injury, for the most part." He gestured about his own face, referencing the lack of scars or nicks on the mercenary's otherwise pristine head.

The man gave a polite chuckle. "Call it a matter of luck, Commander. Or skill, depending on what you'd think. Everywhere I've been, everyone I've faced, no one's been able to touch me. _No one_."

Now the mercenary was turning more boreal by the second. Something in the man's eyes was gradually transmogrifying into a vague and grotesque frontage. Shepard felt an ominous presence close around him, a sixth sense causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Something was quite wrong here, but for the life of him, he could not put his finger on what it was.

Something then clicked in Shepard's mind, causing him to turn inflexible. "Then your services are valued appropriately, I take it. Payday for your outfit's got to be good, right?"

The man's grin broadened. "Lucrative. But why're you asking me that? I just told you I'm not hiring."

"And already I told you I'm not interested in that," Shepard sighed, but he also noticed the man's usage of himself as the sole hiring contact. "_'You're_' not hiring?"

The mercenary's smile held just the barest semblance of sincerity. "A slip."

Shepard was not convinced. "If you run the hiring operations, you must be acquainted with whoever runs Dark Horizon."

"We keep in contact, yes."

"Know if he's been to Luna recently? My daughter was fighting over there at one point."

"Luna… Luna…" the man screwed up his eyes in concentration, though Shepard clearly saw that this was all an act. "Sounds familiar. Heard there was a skirmish over there a few months back. Your daughter… human?"

Shepard blinked. "No. Quarian."

"_Quarian_… ah, yes," the man bared a wolfish grin. "Funny thing. I believe I met her at one point. You see, I was the one who shot that bitch's hand off to start."

The next instant found Shepard unable to breathe in the face of the sudden admission. He heard Garrus next to him utter a startled cry, but his ears had adopted a deafening drone that reduced all background noise to fuzzy warbles. Every little motion his body made felt tender and agonizing, as if pulling on every solitary muscle strand raked razors underneath his skin.

The man's smile was permanently etched on his face as he touched a hidden control on his wrist. In seconds, a black carbon fiber helmet with aquamarine lenses folded from the compartment at the back of his neck, hidden by his jacket, and completely encased his head. From the back of his flight jacket, a heavy metallic mass burst out like a carnivorous parasite. The mechanism that his jacket had been hiding quickly folded into place, adopting the shape of sharp edged wings. Twin rockets on either side flared a royal blue. The air around the man seemed to shimmer, like how air would behave on a hot day.

"More than you bargained for, eh, Shepard?" the Aeronaut taunted, his voice filter devolving his already light tone into a breathy rasp, bolstered by the faint bass tone that gave it a texture akin to boots treading on barbed wire.

Shepard looked down and saw that the two submachine guns were already in the Aeronaut's hands.

There was no time to say anything, for the barrels of the guns exploded in two walls of searing, blinding, white-hot flames. The high velocity rounds split the very air, rippling shockwaves from the reports distorting fat and body mass.

Garrus had tackled Shepard to the ground just in time, a shield having erupted from his omni-tool that protected both their torsos. The shields strained in protest as the bullets slammed against the face, nearly diminishing it down to a quarter strength. The air strobed with noise and light. The Aeronaut was backing up while everyone in the bar dived for cover as he continued to fire upon Garrus and the others. Whirls of smoke streamed around him carelessly. But he had apparently been overzealous in his attack—his submachine guns soon spat useless steam, the barrels burning red hot, overheated.

Shepard choked and gasped as he reeled in the shock of such an unexpected assault. Garrus used the time to grab his old friend and to get him behind the bar, behind cover. He noticed that Shepard was clutching his wrist, teeth gritted in pain.

"Were you hit?" he asked in alarm.

"Fell on it funny," Shepard shook his head, voice sounding tight. "Think it's broken."

Meanwhile, the Aeronaut's guns had cooled enough for him to open fire again. Frustrated at his chance being thwarted, he resorted to shooting up the bar counter as best he could. Liquor bottles shattered behind Garrus' head, soaking him in alcohol. Sparks flashed in blinding strobes along the walls, accompanied by the harsh sound of breaking glass.

The Aeronaut ejected his spent heat sinks before reloading. A momentarily lull in noise fell over the establishment, nearly drowning those with tortured ears. He looked out over the bar, taking stock of the worried expressions he saw. "Stay down or leave," he warned. "Do not direct my interest onto you. You're not involved here."

A few brave souls poked their heads out of the makeshift cover they had quickly crafted for themselves—overturned tables and stage risers being the most common items. Their timid expressions soon turned more and more courageous as they stood, not to leave, but to slowly advance upon the man terrorizing the entire bar.

The Aeronaut swung his guns over to the crowd. "Get the fuck back! I only want Shepard."

"Oh, fuck you!" someone cried out from the back in a strong accent. "You read the damn sign when you walked in here! You have guns—we _all_ have guns! You're fucking _dead_, you cunt!"

The mercenary appeared to be stumped by this turn of events as he suddenly found himself closed in by every combination of armor coloration as the irate crowd slowly came at him. He looked from person to person, finding only irate anger in their eyes, and realized that this faux pas he had generated would prove to be rather inconvenient to his timetable.

"Then let's get this over with," the Aeronaut growled as he cracked his neck. "Come on!"

Two humans broke from the crowd to charge the Aeronaut, pistols in their outstretched hands. The Aeronaut turned on a dime and opened fire. The humans' faces exploded in bloody pops, spraying bone and brains onto the people behind them. The partially liquefied remains of the men collapsed on the ground wetly, their skulls now cavernous openings rimmed by shattered teeth in mirror-like bloody pools.

"Get him!" a krogan in the back roared and the crowd surged.

The Aeronaut's guns began firing indiscriminately into the horde. Men and women screamed and groaned as bullets punctured shields, armor, and flesh. None of them even had time to get a shot off—most of them _couldn't_, not without hitting their own allies. Many fell, their blood mixing to turn the same shade of dark black upon the dimly lit ground. Plumes of brilliant fire were flung from the guns of the winged mercenary, shredding skin and bone, preventing anyone else from lifting a weapon in his direction.

But there were just too many people in the crowd. In moments, they had all stepped over their fallen comrades and had reached the Aeronaut. But the mercenary was not fazed. Before the tide of groping hands could reach him, he stowed his guns back into their holsters and seemed to shake all over like a dog. With a series of splintering noises, the Aeronaut glittered as blades suddenly jutted out from every joint in his body—at his wrists, knees, the tips of his boots. He now even held a wicked-looking combat knife in a hand.

"You're so fucked now," the Aeronaut cackled.

Bristling like a porcupine, the Aeronaut let out a warlike howl as he dived into the crowd. Everyone saw the danger too late and tried to backpedal in panic, but there was nothing that could be done.

The armored denizen was a blur as he twisted this way and that. Hands reached out, trying to grab him, but clumsy fingers slipped and slid over his protective coverings. The Aeronaut leaped, kicked, and slashed. Blood flew in slick gouts as his blades found flesh. One the Aeronaut's cuts sliced across a mercenary's neck, nearly tearing his head clean off—a spurt from the sheared artery caught a human woman in the face, drenching her with the color red. Severed fingers, cut from the Aeronaut's whirling assault, tumbled to the ground as he hacked his assailants to pieces. Lunging and stabbing, his knives violently punctured organs and chest cavities. More toppled to the ground wheezing, blood blistering and bubbling from their mouths as their lungs filled with fluid in the seconds right before they died.

Several punches were aimed at the Aeronaut, but he ducked them all, despite being jostled around in the middle of the crowd. While crouched, he swung at several unprotected midsections with his knife, which caused his victims to emit brutal screams as their guts poured from the ragged cuts in their bellies. Gore had now stained the floor so much that it was nearly impossible to keep one's footing. Bile and stomach acid rose in a massive stink amongst the spilled organs.

A salarian tried to dive at the Aeronaut. He kicked upward with his bladed boot, finding home between the alien's legs. He pulled his foot free, sending a gush of green blood spewing to the ground.

An asari tried to biotically lift the Aeronaut away. The winged mercenary noticed the movement and the telltale glow of energy and he swung with his knife, cutting the asari's hand from her wrist. While she was in the process of screaming, the Aeronaut curved his hand into a hook shape before shoving it forward. His fingers reached out and ripped out the asari's eye, causing it to hang from its socket.

A turian approached the Aeronaut and grabbed him in a half-bear hug, his other hand preparing to stab a blade down into the mercenary's neck. The Aeronaut looked up in time to see the knife and grabbed the turian's wrist before he could strike. He twisted his grip and the turian's wrist cleanly broke. Whirling, the Aeronaut head-butted the turian, smearing his helmet blue with blood. As the turian reeled back, the Aeronaut sliced the knife clean across the alien's neck, sending a cough of blood scything through the air before the turian collapsed.

"_Hey!_" a loud voice bellowed from the bar.

The blood-stained Aeronaut looked up, over the heads of the horde, just in time to see Shepard behind the bar counter, his wounded arm pressed against his chest, level a monstrous pistol at his head. There was an explosion and the Aeronaut's head reeled back. His shields had gone up just in time to absorb the majority of the kinetic energy. One of the lens of his helmet had not gone unscathed though—broken glass from a shattered circle sparkled the ground at the Aeronaut's feet.

Momentarily stunned, the Aeronaut shook his head to clear it. He did not have enough time, because Garrus had shot through the crowd and had plowed into the man in an enormous tackle. The two slammed to the ground together, trading blows. Garrus had to bob and weave his head to avoid being sliced by the Aeronaut's many knives. However, the turian was able to get a grip on the man's chest so that he could deliver punch after punch to the man's helmeted head, knocking it back to the side with each successive hit.

"I want Aleph, you bastard!" Garrus was screaming in the Aeronaut's face. "Give me Aleph and—" The turian's face tightened as he felt something sharp and cold enter his body. With a grimace, he looked down and saw that the mercenary had slipped a knife straight through his armor into the meat of the turian's thigh.

Garrus was still fighting mad though, and he immediately reached down and clamped his hand over the Aeronaut's, slowly pulling the knife free from his leg. The human growled as he struggled to hold the blade in place, but the metal was slowly being wrenched from Garrus' body, centimeter by centimeter. The blade finally wiggled its way out, followed by a warm spurt of the turian's blood.

But the Aeronaut seized his chance. He wound back an arm and cracked a fist across Garrus' face in an enormous blow. The turian was knocked onto his back in a daze. The Aeronaut stood back up, panting, as he twirled the knife in his hand.

"Not bad," he snarled. "But you thought I'd ever sell out Aleph to you?! You are stupider than I thought, Vakarian. When I finally tear out your heart, maybe you'll just realize how insignificant you have been!"

The Aeronaut took a step forward, then suddenly halted as his legs unexpectedly began to kick out in midair. The mercenary tried to look around in a panic, only to find that a pair of ludicrously large and orange-brown scaled hands had gripped themselves tightly onto his jetpack's wings, bodily lifting him up into the air.

"Not if I tear out yours first," Grunt growled right before he twisted his body and hurled the Aeronaut through the air. The dark shape of the airborne man went sailing over several people before he impacted heavily into the wall with a crash. He slid to the ground with a groan, his helmet dented and armor scratched. A few sparks blistered from his jetpack as the smell of fuel slightly overpowered the iron tang of spilled blood.

The krogan bodily pushed his way through the crowd to deal with his disengaged opponent, but the Aeronaut had stumbled back to his feet by then, looking rather worse for wear.

"Clever," he coughed as he staggered his way towards the exit. Bolts of electricity wept from his smashed lens. "But I don't aim to give you the advantage for very long."

With that, the Aeronaut wheeled on a heel and sprinted out the door into the open air of the Citadel. Twin columns of flame burst from his jetpack and his feet soon left the ground of his own accord. Leaving a trail of smoke behind, the Aeronaut flew into the industrial space, dodged several skycars before banking around a corner and disappearing from sight.

Grunt pushed his way out from the bar, a wounded Garrus and Shepard hobbling after him while they supported each other, and searched the skies frantically for the mercenary.

But it was of no use. The Aeronaut had slipped away.

* * *

_Menhir Docks_

Roahn and Taylor moved in for one last grateful hug as they found themselves at the nondescript gateway that led to the _Menhir_. The large poster windows here offered glimpses of both the ship and the superstructure that it was docked with, but neither of them were paying any attention to the scenery.

Taylor's eyes were aglow as she broke away from the hug, her hand still touching Roahn's arms. "Don't wait long to give me an update, Ro. I want to know that you're safe."

Roahn nodded, saddened to leave her friend here but knowing that the demands of her duties necessitated her departure. "I'll try," she said. "Messaging's never been my strong suit."

"Think you can change that for me and be a little more communicative?" Taylor tilted her head. "You have people that worry about you, you know."

"I do," Roahn looked downward shamefully for just a moment. "I'll keep you up to date of what I'm doing, Taylor. I promise you that."

Taylor beamed and bounced on her toes. "That's all I ask," she said.

"Taylor," Roahn touched the other quarian's shoulder. "You could ask for a whole lot more and I would give it to you."

"I would never doubt that. Good luck out there, Ro. Please be careful."

The two dear friends parted with another hug and a silent pledge that they would see each other before long. Taylor also delivered a final wave to Skye and Korridon, who had been waiting in the middle of the walkway for Roahn to join them. They had not been close enough to hear what the two quarians had been saying, for they knew that there were some matters that were clearly to remain private.

As the three walked back into the _Menhir_, it was clear that not everyone had returned from their shore leave—several of the tech chairs were empty and the CIC did not have the usual sort of bustle present at this time. They all made their way to the staircase and traveled one level down to the ship's commissary. Roahn and Skye grabbed bottles of water for themselves while Korridon kept on heading down to the next staircase.

"I'm going to go run some more tests on the artifact," he said to them by way of parting.

Roahn would have dearly liked to have told him not to take too much time as Korridon's shore leave had not officially ended, but a part of her stomped that notion out, knowing that anything that the turian could derive from his research that proved to give them an edge on Aleph's intentions could not be discounted. Time was of the essence and the two of them knew that.

Instead, she fixed a silent nod in his direction, unable to produce any meaningful words that would give the scene some closure.

Roahn headed back to her room, fully intent on collapsing upon her bed and obtaining several fulfilled hours of restful sleep, but she soon had the dim realization that she was being followed. She turned her head slightly back around to see Skye slowly ambling after her, a somewhat obsequious expression on her face.

Upon reaching her door, Roahn turned around to face Skye. The human's hands were behind her back in a self-assured posture.

The quarian pointed lamely to the door. "This is _my_ room."

Skye's mouth flattened and she shifted her eyes back and forth, as if she thought this was a trick statement. "Yes… I can see that."

Roahn was not sure if Skye had gotten the hint or not. Then again, she did have to consider the fact that she was not being clear enough with her intent, but rather than refining her meaning, she made a stuttering noise—both of frustration and of finality—and walked through the door, not really caring if Skye was going to continue to follow her or not. At some base level, past all her bluster and defenses, she liked the human's company. Her drowsiness was the one thing that was limiting her patience for conversation at this point, not her underlying emotions for the woman.

The lights to her room automatically turned on as she entered. Roahn turned them back down. Skye moseyed her way on in, picking at the bare trappings of the area.

Roahn momentarily entered the bathroom before exiting back into the bedroom. The quarian's helmet was now bare, her _sehni_ in her hands. Skye almost gave a physical start at seeing Roahn like this, but Roahn was not acting as if she was committing some sacrilege by letting others see underneath her _sehni_. All that was under there were several lengths of tubing that connected to the back of her helmet and snaked from the corners of its jaw, pumping filtered oxygen and sucking out carbon dioxide. A cleaning cloth was held in a three-fingered hand and Roahn sat on the corner of the bed so she could rub at a spot on the purple fabric that had a spot of grease on it.

"I really liked Taylor," Skye said as she took a seat next to Roahn. The quarian did not seem to mind. She was continuing to dab at her _sehni_ while the two sat together.

"I'm glad," Roahn finally said. "Taylor liked you too. The both of you got along really well."

"Worried that we might not have been so friendly to the other?"

Roahn shrugged. "There's always that to consider. Fortunately, there turned out to be no cause for alarm."

Skye laughed flippantly as she waved her hair back over her shoulders. "Nah, she was great. Can't believe she's related to Sam, though. She seems to have a cooler head on her shoulders."

"Believe me," Roahn laughed as she leaned over so that she could place her _sehni_ on her desk, "Sam may have enough vitriol to overcome everyone on this ship, but he saves all his snark for his colleagues, never for his family. If you've ever seen him at home with Taylor, you'd know. It's like a switch flips in the man. He can go from levelling a bevy of sarcastic comments at your face, but in the next moment he'll be chatting gently with his wife and daughter. It's kind of funny, actually."

The quarian sighed as she leaned back on the bed, her hands indenting the mattress slightly. She looked over at Skye, giving the human a once-over. "I had a good time today. I needed this."

"So did I," Skye said as she mimicked Roahn's movements. The human's hand went back a little too far and accidentally nudged Roahn's finger, but neither woman made a reaction just yet. "I was in the mood for a good distraction."

"Distraction…" Roahn repeated slowly, as if the word left a bad taste in her mouth. "Yet tomorrow it all starts back up. Our hunt, the fighting…"

"Will you being moody also start back up?" Skye levelled her head expectantly.

Roahn's eyes narrowed into glowing slits. "Don't start with me."

"I'm not trying to start anything. It's just… you get so focused on this one thing, finding the man who hurt you, that you start to scare me sometimes. I don't like seeing you when you're like that, Roahn. I look at you then and I don't see the person that first caught my eye."

The quarian then turned her lower half so that she was now mostly facing the human on the bed. "You say that like you've only just remembered to care about me."

"Roahn," Skye sighed as she now reached out and grabbed the quarian's right hand with her left. There was no resistance—Roahn instead instinctively tightened her grip around the human's five fingers. "I never said that I _stopped_ caring."

Something unclenched within Roahn's chest and she raised her prosthesis, her metal fingers glinting in the low light, and brought it inches from Skye's unblinking face. Her hand trembled in midair, torn between several choices, until Skye moved her face forward so that Roahn would be able to cup it with her fingers. The human gave a brief shudder from the cold alloy against her warm cheek, but to Roahn the touch felt so familiar, so magnetic, that she nearly gasped from the ease at which her mind was able to accept it. Electric signals from her prosthesis to her brain were firing rapidly, creating a tingling sensation at the very tips of her fingers.

Roahn gently moved her thumb back and forth upon Skye's cheek, the prosthesis having been warmed now from her body heat. The human gave a gentle murmur from the gesture, her eyes momentarily lidding closed in joy from Roahn's attention.

The quarian shook her head. "Skye. Skye. Things could have been so much easier. Why couldn't things have stayed the way they were between us?"

Tiptoeing fingers crept their way up Roahn's arms. She gave a shiver. Skye's hands soon drew themselves up Roahn's neck until, excruciatingly, they arrived at the chin of her helmet. The human held the quarian's head, a kind and comfortable hold upon which a dear and longing emotion plunged from both of their eyes and met in a tortuous and fiery embrace.

"Who says we can't go back to that?" Skye whispered as she brought her thumbs up closer to the corners of the jaw of Roahn's helmet. She held her grip there, her fingers daring not apply any more pressure, as she waited for a sign, no matter how slight. Her lips parted longingly, a silent plea to confirm that her instincts had not been mistaken.

Roahn froze, breath dwindling down to a slither. Her heart thumped rapidly against her chest. Three beats in less than two seconds.

Then she spoke, but not with her words. Rather, she lifted her hands and gently placed them upon where Skye's were. Roahn held both their hands at the jaw of her helmet for a moment, both never breaking eye contact from one another.

"I… figured out what I wanted to put down as my wager," she finally croaked out, making a move before Skye could suitably respond.

Roahn pressed down on Skye's thumbs, causing the human to push upon the clasps that attached the quarian's visor to her helmet. There was a swift hiss of escaping gas, but the moment faded before any of them had time to take stock of what had just happened. Roahn, still in control of Skye's hands, gently pushed away, her visor tightly gripped in the human's fingers. She was smiling as the covering lifted away from her face, more or less grinning at Skye's particularly dumbfounded expression as her features came to light. Her visor soon dropped from Skye's numb fingers, landing gently upon the sheets of the bed with a soft thump.

The quarian shyly blinked as she watched Skye gape at her. It had been years since the human had seen her face, and she knew that while she may have visibly aged in that time it would be impossible for Skye to forget what she truly looked like. Roahn had always found it funny that humans always seemed to be the most dumbstruck when they looked upon her unmasked face. After all, there was very little in the way of differences in their facial structure that separated them. Apart from her skin tone, eye color, and the elongated shape of her ears, her species was the closest visual relation to humans in the galaxy in terms of facial shape. Yet it remained a point of solemn consideration for humans upon realizing just how analogous they were. Perhaps they felt that, barring certain circumstances, their fates could have easily been switched. They could very well have been a species that needed to wear protective enviro-suits as well.

Roahn's gray lips parted, showing immaculate white teeth. Skye still looked particularly stupefied, which the quarian did not know if she should take as a flattering sign quite yet.

"I didn't get any younger since our last time," she softly laughed, trying to break the perceived tension.

Skye then reached out and clutched at the back of Roahn's helmet.

"Like that matters," she murmured before she brought her head together to deliver a furious kiss.

Roahn felt her lips part immediately as she felt the human's mouth on hers. Already their tongues had met, any notions of cross-species sickness being completely disregarded as their fumbling hands struggled to bring the other closer, tighter, to embrace and find relief in such a weary galaxy. Muffled moans went nowhere as the two mashed their mouths together, bringing an intoxicating heat to flourish. The quarian's eyes lidded closed, delirious, as she opened herself up to the sensation of Skye's lips, the taste of her mouth. Her senses exploded in a consuming and unexpected swell that drifted down her throat, past her stomach, and settled at her waist.

Roahn shuddered deeply, needing to take a breath. Their lips parted wetly, thin strands briefly connecting their mouths before snapping away. Skye was similarly breathing hard, her lungs struggling to find air. They rested their foreheads against one another, enjoying this momentary lull, as if they could sense each other's pulse, their shared desires. Their heavy eyelids then opened. Roahn's fish egg green eyes found Skye's deep brown ones.

"I…" Skye whispered, "I just wanted to…"

"Stop talking," Roahn interrupted right before she fiercely kissed the woman.

Their vibrant embrace, so intense it was almost angry, had mounted whatever barriers had been erected within both women. Something had changed inside them. A defense had crumbled, allowing the dammed emotions behind it to rush in with a vengeance. They kissed, hugged, and grabbed at each other, far beyond anything resembling grace. These were not actions that nurtured fragility. These were the desperate acts of a nameless hunger, one that had been festering for a long time and only now could be satiated.

Roahn's fingers snaked to the collar of Skye's shirt, unbuttoning it with a series of snaps. She yanked, loosening the garment right down to the human's waist, exposing the pale skin of her stomach and a utilitarian black undergarment over her chest.

While she was doing that, Skye was pulling at the rest of Roahn's helmet, toppling it off her skull. Roahn's crumpled black hair was thrown free, a few inches short of her shoulders. The quarian tossed her head, giving her hair a shake, reveling in the cavernous sensation of open air around her ears. There was barely any time for her to enjoy the newfound freedom though—she helped Skye loosen sections of her suit from her neck down to her waist. A hidden control on Roahn's omni-tool was toggled and the elasticity of her enviro-suit suddenly loosened, no longer taut. The quarian unclipped a few of her fabric trappings that wrapped around her arms and waist, unclipped the faint silver accented armor that encased her throat, and stretched her shoulder blades so that her suit was able to split at the seam along her back. Her gray spine poked through the new channel that had rifted open, causing a cold breeze to ripple along her exposed body, giving the quarian a shiver.

Skye reached around and practically raked the quarian's enviro-suit open, splitting it so that Roahn's skin was freed from her shoulders to her waist. Roahn pulled backwards, wrenching the suit from her arms (she had to momentarily detach and reattach her prosthesis as the suit came away from her stump). The protective suit folded around Roahn's hips, leaving her upper half bare while she simultaneously tugged at Skye's shirt before unclipping the human's bra.

The two were now midway from being completely undressed, but they did not seem to be concerned with going all the way just yet. Roahn's hands greedily went to Skye's chest—and the human did the same to the quarian. Both gave longing moans as they felt the other's touch, Roahn more so since her skin was naturally more sensitive.

Skye looked down to see one of Roahn's metallic fingers gently circle a nipple, the tip which momentarily felt like ice before it absorbed the human's warmth. Her gaze drew upwards, following the contours of the quarian's prosthesis before seeing it terminate right where the remains of her arm had been cut off. She had seen several amputees before but it was all the more sobering when the person affected was your friend. Skye smoothed a hand over the quarian's artificial arm, her fingers rubbing across cool metal, and she lightly touched the boundary between metal and flesh. Roahn observed Skye satiate her curiosity, neither of them saying anything at the moment, content to let this moment continue unabated.

The human then gently lifted Roahn's prosthesis so that she could deliver a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. Roahn gave a little start, blinking in confusion, but Skye was caressing the arm lovingly, as if to say the injury was no big deal, that all the hurt she had gone through could be forgotten in these tender minutes. In Skye's eyes, she was no less complete than the day they had first met.

Almost without thinking, Roahn reached out and lightly pushed at Skye's collarbone, pinning the woman to the bed. The quarian swung her leg over so she was straddling the human, grinning like an idiot while her hair was falling around her eyes. Skye was smiling radiantly as well while her hands reached up to Roahn's chest to grope and play with her breasts. Encouraged by such a palpable display of physicality, the half-unadorned Roahn let the next layer of her inhibitions slide away and she dove down to attack the side of Skye's neck with her lips and tongue. She kissed and licked a trail upward to the woman's jaw, nibbled at her earlobe (this caused Skye to groan and arch her back), and finally reuniting her lips with Skye's as the two became locked in their ravenous position.

Both of their hips were making slight rocking motions, unintentional instincts. Their shared slide into sexual delirium had been made wholeheartedly as the half-naked women lied on that bed and made out joyously.

Roahn then broke the kiss and lifted herself up partway. Skye's hands were still on her breasts. She looked down at where Skye was touching her and back up to the woman's face. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Very," she said with a hefty dose of amusement. "I missed this."

"I can tell, you _bosh'tet_."

Skye's shoulders bobbed in a shrug. "I'm not bragging. I just like being here with you."

Roahn gently brushed a strand of the human's auburn hair out of her eyes with her right hand. She let her fingers rest momentarily on Skye's forehead before she trailed them down to her jaw, to the nape of her neck, back up to her chin, and finally to her lips. Skye's tongue snaked out and caught the tip of Roahn's fingers as she gave an impish grin.

The two woman quietly laughed.

The quarian adopted an expectant guise. "I'm assuming you want to go further?"

"Well, your suit's mostly off already," Skye said sheepishly. "I think we're kind of past the point of no return there, Ro."

Roahn looked up at the ceiling before admitting to herself that the human had a valid point. She gave a shrug.

"Fair enough. Take off your pants."

* * *

Roahn woke several times during the night. She had never gotten used to sleeping without a suit before. The feeling of bedsheets against her skin just felt weird. Plus, having someone else's body heat in close proximity might be fun for an hour or so, but later on it tended to just make her overheat in bed.

Comically, her sleeping schedule alternated between resting both inside and outside the sheets as she struggled to find a location that would bring her some form of temperature equilibrium. She would be sweltering under the covers at one point and then absolutely freezing on top of the bed at another. Also, this added stimuli had an effect on her ideal sleeping position. Every new contour she forced herself into brought a new slew of distracting sensations on her body. A touch here, a touch there. Every little adjustment she made brought different tactile response. So many things to consider!

Finally, Roahn decided that sleep was just going to become a difficult prospect for her tonight. She sat up in bed, the covers falling to her waist while she propped up a pillow so she could sit upright. Enviously, she gazed upon Skye lying next to her, who was currently sound asleep on her stomach, the skin of her back still glistening.

Muffled snores wheezed through Skye's open mouth. The human had never been a particularly pretty sleeper, Roahn remembered. Skye would always been the first one to conk out and she was not one to usually sleep in a graceful position.

_It's never simple_, Roahn thought as she gently ran her fingers across Skye's exposed back. The human mumbled in her sleep before smacking her lips, quieting after fidgeting for a moment. Roahn kept her hand upon Skye, a slight fascination with the similarities in their bodies stilling her mind.

What they had experienced a few hours ago… Roahn could not begin to even describe it. She had to tilt her head back to let out a quiet but longing sigh as her imagination threatened to take over. Their bodies had felt like they had writhed together for hours. Simply mind-blowing sex. Nothing had been straightforward about it. A selfless trade of one person's pleasure to another before both embarked on a mindful journey to bring each other home. The closeness. The heat. The feeling of Skye's hands gripping hers, her belly pressing against hers, her mouth closed upon hers. Her moans at her ear. Nails raking her back. The loping shadows falling over her face as Skye moved up and down above her. Thinking about it was making Roahn squirm slightly in bed right now, the corner of her mouth lifting in a sheepish smile.

But there was still a weight gripping her, keeping her looking at Skye, as though as if Roahn expected this entire scene to be rendered to bits at a moment's notice. A fever dream, brought on by a fit of the imagination.

Was there really a future to be had with this woman? Roahn felt her head droop down as she seriously tried to consider this. They had been down this road before, her and Skye, and things had ended in disaster. Was this simply an exercise in insanity or could there be the potential for something different to arise? Had Skye become different enough to warrant her devotion?

It troubled Roahn that she could not give herself a definitive answer.

Thoughts suddenly dark, Roahn morosely slid back under the covers, only her arms and head peeking out over the sheets, as an encroaching fatigue began to wash over her. She turned on her side, Skye at her back, and faced the wall.

Through the dim shadows, Roahn swore she could see the gloomy outline of a large object. No… not an object. A… person? Draped in armor?

Roahn rapidly blinked. There was nothing there. Just an empty corner. It had only been a trick of the light, nothing more.

She was only imagining seeing him in this sacred place, at a time when she was most vulnerable. She would not give into the demons that tortured her very mind. He would not be able to hurt her here!

The incubus inside Roahn's head taunted with vagaries and wraiths, but Roahn had nearly drifted off into a dreamless sleep by then, leaving her final unconscious thoughts bemoaning the nightmares that her imagination was infecting her mind with.

To the shadows, she whispered, "_I'm coming for you. Wherever you are, I'll find you_."

And the shadows whispered back.

"_**Good**_**.**"

But Roahn's eyes had lidded shut, leaving the word and its cruel intentions floating away into nothingness. The sound, if had even existed at all, would never be registered.

* * *

**A/N: Being under a shelter-in-place order is never any fun, but I guess it gives me more time to write. After all, what the hell else am I going to do? Might as well do something with my time.**

**Speaking of, there might be a slight shift in my schedule going forward that has nothing to do with the current political/viral shenanigans. Somehow I managed to snag a job after being unemployed for a brief spell - of course I'm overjoyed to be making some money again but this does come with the snag that I might not be able to release chapters as often as I'd like. So, if it seems like this story goes quiet for a bit, don't worry. It is far from being dead. I've written most of the story already so there's no reason in abandoning it now. I haven't even gotten to the fun part yet, no way am I ducking out at this point!**

**Stay safe out there.**

**Playlist:**

**Cardinal (Atmospheric)**  
**"Phazon Mines"**  
**Kenji Yamamoto**  
**Metroid Prime (Original Soundtrack)**

**Aeronaut Scuffle**  
**"High Speed Maneuvers"**  
**Henry Jackman and Hans Zimmer**  
**Captain Phillips (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**A Night Together**  
**"The Ocean"**  
**Clinton Shorter**  
**The Expanse [Season 2] (Original Television Soundtrack)**


	24. Chapter 24: The Pattern! The Pattern!

_List of places where Mass Effect is/was banned:_

_ \- Singapore  
__ \- Fox News_

_The Mass Effect 2 Manual_

* * *

_Xebron Towers  
__The Citadel_

A glittering spire amongst a host of similar stalagmites of metal and glass, the Xebron Towers were unremarkable examples of structures for their designed purpose. Mostly they were used as flats or condominiums, but in this district that was not an atypical example of what sort of function these buildings were meant to achieve.

Despite housing being the pervasive main use for the tenants, that did not mean that rent came at a discount. Citadel life sadly came at a premium—being able to technically own any sort of accommodation on a space station was considered a luxury. After all, what other artificial spacebound satellite could scores of people hope to reside in relative comfort in this galaxy? The Citadel occupied that particular niche that was both looked fondly upon by both the wealthy and the downtrodden.

It was certainly a symbol that attracted the delight of the extravagant as well as the disgust from the austere, the Citadel.

Despite the implications of affluence, Sam McLeod very rarely used his apartment on the Citadel these days. He had been using it the most when he was a bachelor and had been justifiably living in it, but ever since he married Nya his use for the place had steadily dwindled and dwindled as he focused more on his house back on Earth, as the both of them felt that being planetbound was better place to live and to raise a family. He still kept the apartment, mostly because the rent had been paid off for several years already (and had gone down quite a bit since the war) and in part because he simply liked the idea of having his own place on a structure out in space. Sam would be the first to profess that he was quite the old romantic about the idea of space and harkening back to humanity's golden age as an inspiration for his desire to venture out past an atmosphere in the first place.

The apartment itself was not terribly extravagant, considering the Citadel's average for residence ostentation. Sam did harbor the belief that he probably had more space than he should, being self-aware enough to recognize that having somewhere to lay his head that was the size of a high-tier hotel suite might be considered in poor taste. The apartment had a luxuriously furnished living room, an expansive kitchen, one gigantic bathroom, and two bedrooms—a master bedroom and the other which was used as a home gym. Standard living by any measure, yet a substantial upgrade considering the net average on the Citadel had to bunk with roommates or worse, slept in rooms no bigger than a broom closet.

The building had its own cleaning service, so the apartment was practically immaculate, save for the trail of clothes and enviro-suit trappings that now made a scattered track from the foyer towards the larger of the bedrooms. A low and wide bed on thick stilts enraptured gravity in the room it inhabited, flanked by an enormous poster window that let the bright glow of Earth drape across the bed. Individual cities and geographical features could be picked out by the naked eye at this distance. Storm cells, dotted pinpricks of distant fire—the mosaic of city lights, and the hardened scars of canyons etching their way across the ground.

A beautiful sight, though it remained thoroughly ignored by the two occupants of the room at this moment.

Nya'McLeod laid in middle of the bed with her head against a hill of pillows, stark naked, with a blanket covering her body just below her chest. A large lump underneath the sheets was situated further past her body, appearing to rest over her waist. Nya's hands were groping at something underneath the sheets—the lump, perhaps—as her head turned this way and that, soft moans coming from her mouth. Her eyes were rapturously shut. She sucked in her bottom lip as her back twisted and arched.

The quarian had been in her current position for nearly ten minutes now, though the presence of sweat at her brow suggested she had been active for far longer than that. The mound that was squirming underneath the bed sheets was moving in an active and purposeful rhythm, keeping a steady pace to hammer home an undying attention.

The infinite dusk of space intertwined with the world's light, creating canyons and rivulets upon the bedsheets. Gentle breath escaped from the quarian's lungs, a light harmony that encompassed the void of the room. Muffled noises murmured from below the sheets, a firm but stoic resonance. Nya could feel an unyielding touch set itself upon her skin—a leech fixated upon one simple spot. Unmoving. Unrelenting.

After a while, Nya could not take any more. She gave a groan as she lifted herself up, the planet's glow throwing sharp shadows across the curves of her breasts. "Sam…" she had to gasp, "Oh… no… no, Sam."

The fumbling under the sheets stopped. A pink hand reached out from underneath and yanked the coverings back. Sam McLeod sat up from where he had been attending to his wife after wiping his face, a mirthful look upon him.

"Was that one of those '_No means no_' kind of 'no's?'" the man inquired.

Nya grinned, though she was out of breath. "It was one of those '_I can't go on anymore_' kind of 'no's.'" She held out her arms and her husband brought himself up to fall into her embrace.

The two then proceeded to progress with the sort of maudlin displays of affection that typically went hand-in-hand between a couple deeply in love. They hugged each other close, their eyes never drifting from the other. Their touches ran along each other's back, sheets crumpled at their waists. The iridescent tessellation of lights—from buildings, spaceships, or outerworldly debris—flowed past the window in a dripping haze, the very same window that the pair had just made love in front of without a care in the world. They had found each other together, wrapped in the soft light of the world down below, rapt with pleasure as the gentle darkness of the apartment made battle with whatever illumination dared to trespass through the open window. They had been two distinct shadowy shapes then, thrusting and writhing in tandem, their thoughts turned to themselves and only to themselves.

"Mmm," Nya murmured into Sam's neck, her shoulder-length hair splaying out over the pillow.

"Yes?" Sam asked as he lay on his back, eyes closed in bliss.

"Nothing. You just feel good, is all. The house gets lonely without you."

The man cracked an eye open and smirked. "Hopefully tonight was able to make up for some of that time."

"Just some," Nya teased after delivering a yawn. "Uh. You definitely wore me out."

Sam lightly chuckled. "So I guess you're saying that you aren't up for another round?"

"Ugh," Nya turned around and buried her head in her pillow for a moment, her smooth gray skin temporarily blending in with the filtered shadows of the room. "I don't know how you can still think about sex after this."

"I've been on a ship in space for months, dear. My imagination can only get me so far when I'm away from you."

The quarian lifted her head up, projecting an unamused stare while her hair dangled freely. "You're trying to milk this moment for all it's worth, aren't you?"

Sam shrugged as he opened both eyes, making a very matter-of-fact face. "Wouldn't you? Obviously it's a little different for me because even when I'm around you I don't get to see your face every second. I just like having more moments like that, is all."

"Mmm," Nya murmured again as a wide smile nearly split her features. She laid her head upon Sam's chest. "You're a very sweet man."

The two laid there for several long minutes, but did not fall into a deep slumber. Sam's eyes remained opened as his gaze was drawn to Earth outside, lazily rotating as the edge of the sun began to creep along the curved horizon. The glittering cities down below disappeared underneath the encroaching illumination. Swaths of vibrant color immediately replaced them. The ropes of light—columns of spaceborne traffic—vanished along with the luminescent grid, made into sparkling motes as the day began to brighten.

Sam idly ran his thumb along Nya's hand. His other hand traced an aimless pattern upon her back. The quarian's loose embrace around his chest tightened a bit as she gave a tired mumble.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Nya suddenly said, nearly startling Sam for how clear her voice was.

He had to think before giving an answer. "Nothing in particular, actually."

"Come on," Nya scoffed. "You've got to be thinking about something."

Sam pointed a finger at himself. "Human male, Nya, remember? Now, I don't know if other species suffer from the same problem but, on occasion, in which case I mean _quite often_, there are just moments in the day where I can simply space out. In which no one topic ever fully _gels_ in my mind. It's all vagaries and nonsense that just pops into my head that doesn't even make that much sense if I think about it too hard. And on the occasion when we _are_ thinking of something rather strongly and you _do_ ask me what it's about, it's usually so stupid that you'll never want to ask that question to me ever again."

"Fine," Nya propped herself up on an elbow as she rolled her eyes. "I'll be a little more direct then, you _simple_ human. When I was on top of you earlier tonight, we were saying… some things that… you know…"

"Pillow talk?" Sam bumped his eyebrows.

Nya looked upward before sheepishly nodding. "Yeah. Now, you seemed to like what I was saying to you, but it got me wondering a bit."

"Wondering if the Vega of the current stock market implies that I should take up a different option strategy rather than the position I took last week?"

"N-No… I… I don't… what the fu-?!" Nya stammered, absolutely thrown off at being handed such an inane statement from her husband's mouth. But Sam was grinning, fully knowing that he was just spewing nonsense purely to mess with Nya. "_No_, moron! What I was trying to ask you was… _aw, this is stupid_… was there anything you wanted me to say to you in particular when… when you telling me that you're close?"

"Ah," Sam suddenly took a few years off his face as a youthful grin imparted itself there. "You want me to tell you what I think the sexiest phrase from your mouth would be?"

Nya looked back and forth before nodding as though she thought she had made herself quite clear.

Sam now put on an exaggerated expression as he considered the ceiling, his fingers tapping a random tattoo upon Nya's skin. "Sexiest phrase I want you to say…"

"Anything," Nya bobbed her shoulders.

"Okay," Sam sighed before he quickly lifted his index finger, lightly tapping the quarian on the nose, causing Nya to giggle unexpectedly. "But I want you to promise not to laugh when I tell you."

"I won't! I won't laugh."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay," Sam let out a breath and gave the sheets an adjustment so that they were lying straight across his waist. "The sexiest phrase I want you to say to me is…"

Nya's eyes widened. Expectant. Anxious. Curious.

"'_Dinner's ready_.'"

The speed at which Nya's expression fell could have broken the sound barrier with its velocity. From inquisitive to confused to disgusted and finally to just outrageously annoyed. Sam could feel Nya's body slump against his own. _I think I just killed a part of her_, he noted to his amusement.

A three-fingered hand gradually rose into the air. It lazily swung forward and caught Sam's cheek in a slap at the speed of molasses. Sam blinked as Nya's fingertips grazed his skin. He could not stop chuckling after that—his deeply miffed wife had now buried her face into his chest, her fists now tenderly beating upon his body as she was playfully irritated at the man's blatant gall and intent to vex her.

"Not the answer you were expecting?" he asked, knowing that he was merely digging his own grave but, as much as he tried, he could not stop making jokes.

Nya's head came back up, eyes lidded with pure aggravation. "I don't know why I put up with you."

"Good looks, great sense of humor, and unbelievably amazing in bed?"

"Better add '_excruciatingly modest_' to that list," Nya snorted but her face softened as she brushed a stray strand of hair from Sam's eyes. "Cross out your supposed great sense of humor and I'll agree with you."

Sam gripped Nya's shoulders as he looked at her with serious intent. "Consider it done," he said lowly, but with enough gravitas to emphasize the fact that he was still playing around.

The two managed to see the amusement in the situation and shared in their cachinnation together. They then turned on their sides and gradually moved closer and closer to the other in the bed, their lips about to touch when, all of a sudden, a series of muffled noises from the floor above rudely drew their attention.

"What the hell is going on up there?" Sam grumbled, annoyed, his eyes shifting towards the spot right above him, his wife's gaze quickly following suit.

An alternation of muted thumps, obscure voices, and otherwise subdued shuffling sounds were reverberating throughout the room, all centralized upon one particular spot at the ceiling. Sam and Nya squinted their eyes, trying to perceive what the source of all the commotion was. They could pick out two distinct voices—one man and one woman—but the circumstances of this sudden clamor were unknown as of now.

Sam blinked as he turned to lay upward on his back, shoulder-to-shoulder with his wife. "Did we always have such a thin ceiling?"

"I think the apartment above us got new tenants a month ago," Nya suggested.

"Apparently they like to make a lot of noise. They arranging furniture up there or what?"

"No… I think they're…"

The couple abruptly paused, their eyes widening in surprise as the distant voices grew in volume and took on a ragged but even rhythm. The human and the quarian, with the sheets still bunched over their waists, silently laid in their bed as they watched the ceiling, a bevy of stifled bumps and groans now starting to pervade the sanctity of their room.

"They're not…" Sam whispered, but the voices from above finished his thought before he could.

"_Oh! Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes! God, I want that turian cock in me! Just fuck… fuck me!"_

"I believe they are," Nya dimly nodded, wearing the same astonished expression on her face as her husband.

"_Oh Jesus… you're so hard! You're so big! I want you to fill me. I want you to fuck me with that big fat cock!"_

"Good lord," Sam busted out laughing. "She's overdoing it a bit."

"No kidding. Sam… do _I_ sound like-?"

"—No," the human quickly shook his head. "No, you do not."

As the ruckus upstairs continued, it was only natural to consider for Sam and Nya that what they were baring witness to was not the sort of organic chemistry brought upon by attraction or devotion alone, but perhaps by the manufactured coupling brought upon by the demand for lewd material to be viewed at an impersonal distance. Taking into account that pornography was a plausible scenario for all this noise brought the human and quarian a rather voyeuristic source of amusement over the next five minutes (in a critiquing sort of manner) as they listened to the female upstairs caterwauling her enjoyment while her male (presumably turian) partner uttered nothing but animalistic grunts from time to time. Sam and Nya were laughing uproariously to themselves the entire time as they heard bad line after bad line shouted earnestly and quite forcefully. One wondered what the other neighbors were feeling if they too were overhearing this.

"_Ohhhh, shit! Fuck this pussy, turian daddy! Fuck it! FUCK IT!"_

Sam had to use a pillow to cover his face because he was laughing so hard after this line. Nya was similarly clutching her belly, her breath coming out in wheezes as she was nearly shrieking with laughter. After a few seconds, Sam lifted the pillow from his face, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Oh my god…" he choked out as he wiped his eyes. "This is both the worst and the best thing I've ever heard."

"I can't… I just can't…" Nya coughed out in between her frantic gasps. She massaged her stomach. "It hurts. Oh, I'm hurting from laughing."

"_Ooooh! Oooaaah! AAAUUUGGH! Ah! Ah! Ooooh… yeeeeeess…_"

Nya had been stifling her peals of laughter by clamping a hand over her mouth at this time. She finally gained enough breath to speak as she considered the ceiling with concern. "Is he… _hurting_ her?"

"From the rate that bed is creaking," Sam paused to let the rhythmic thumping sounds make their point, "I wouldn't be too surprised."

The muffled pounding and scraping sound of bed stilts on the floor made it difficult to differentiate the sounds from regular coitus or an acrobatics routine. The woman above was still making the occasional note of pleasure apart from her exaggerated wails, which at least provided some reassurance that she was not being violently killed.

Soon enough, the pummeling sounds subsided, but the woman still retained her volume. _"Oh, gimmie that, baby! I want you all over my face! Cover me! Ohhh, I want you to shoot in my mouth!"_

"Oh, _keelah_, no…" Nya groaned as she seemed to shrink into the mattress.

Like that was not going to halt any of the festivities.

"_AHHHHaglbarghle… huuh! Huuh! Haa…."_

Now silence could be afforded to the room. Sam and Nya continued to maintain their thoroughly flummoxed stares upwards, their minds completely discombobulated from hearing that atrocious display one floor up. They were both slightly damp from howling their laughter so forcefully, their breathing still not returned to normal. Nya slowly swept her body over her husband, a leg over his as she draped an arm across his chest.

Nya then turned her head over to Sam. He caught a twinkle in the corner of her eye and was a little confused at first when she started to smile.

"Well…" Nya shrugged. "After listening to that… I'm in the mood again."

Sam's body shook with a quiet laugh. He reached over to pull the quarian against him so they could finally set back to more important tasks at hand. The two parted their lips slightly, pressed their faces together, gripped each other's back tightly, met their tongues lovingly, and were breathing in deeply, both starting to reach under the covers while tenderly sharing their secret smiles.

Then of course the moment had to be ruined in the next instant when Sam's omni-tool began to ring.

"Of all the fucking timing!" Sam growled, his eyes screwing shut as though he could shut the noise out.

"Just let it ring," Nya begged as she began to hold onto her husband's waist.

"I can't," Sam bemoaned. "It might be important."

Nya gave a derisive sigh but she then gave a nod, disappointed but understanding.

Sam connected the call. Audio only, obviously. "McLeod here."

"_Sam? Liara_," a wispy voice crackled through. "_We need you on the Menhir as soon as you are able_."

"On the _Menhir?_ _Now?_ Liara, what the hell're you talking about?"

"_Garrus and the others just got into a little scuffle. Don't worry, everyone's fine, but they did receive a few more bumps and scrapes than they bargained for. It's best if you come over at once_."

Sam had to resist the urge to groan out loud. As much as voicing his displeasure would be, he was still amenable to the unspoken rules of decorum. "All right, I'll be over in fifteen minutes." He flopped his arm back down to the bed, looking rather drained. Nya noted his displeasure and rolled partially on top of him, her fingers picking at his beard.

"We made the most of our time, at least," she said.

A ghost of a smile flitted across the man's face. "I can't help but want a little bit more of it."

"There will always be more chances," Nya assured as she cupped her husband's chin. "And I'm proud that you are doing something you feel is meaningful. No one could be happier for you than me."

The man was touched. How did he get so lucky to have such a wonderful woman in his life?

"Thank you, dear," Sam said before the couple shared one final kiss.

* * *

_Menhir_

The blue and gray leg armor toppled to the ground of the med bay with a clatter. Dried blue blood flakes crisped off the scratched surface, marring the floor. Sam, back in his medical coat, donned a pair of clear HUD goggles as he moved in to take a closer look at his patient's wound.

A partially-armored Garrus lounged upon the bed, squinting in the bright and vibrant white light the overhead lamps were providing. His bodysuit for his left leg had been completely cut away by the doctor, exposing his ridged carapace and underlying cartilage. Even at a distance it had looked like Garrus had received a little more physical attention than his normal amount. The turian had garnered a couple of scratches to his face in addition to the gash in his leg, judging by the thin lines of beryl making a partial grid just above his eyes. Sam disregarded the superficial wounds for now as the leg wound was the main focus for his attention, considering the amount of blood having been spilled in that location.

Sam then snapped on some gloves before he grabbed a thin metal tool and a syringe. He brought himself close to the ragged cut, giving it a visual inspection. A lot of blood had congealed around the affected area. The first thing that Sam did was grab a wetted cloth so he could dab the area clean. The wound no longer looked so horrific—just a stout chasm that led into the dark depths of Garrus' leg.

"Okay, I think I see the problem here," Sam muttered as he straightened back up. With a flat face, he turned to Garrus. "You appear to have been stabbed."

The turian stared at Sam like he was an idiot. "You're kidding, right? That's your diagnosis? I _saw_ the knife enter my leg. I didn't think that needed to be made clear!"

Sam pretended not to hear Garrus as he typed in some notes on his datapad, though it was not without a smirk. "I can see being wounded hasn't done wonders for your attitude, Vakarian."

"I'd like to see you so glib if the tables were turned and _you_ had been the one stabbed," Garrus shot back. "Better yet, hand _me_ a knife and we can settle this comparison right here, if you'd like!"

"Perish the thought. Your enthusiasm for inflicting harm upon me does not give me any security in rising to your challenge. Worse, you'd probably nick my femoral artery, something your foe apparently did not succeed in accomplishing."

"Let's just hope that your work isn't as sloppy, then."

Sam's mouth grew into a taunting grin. "Count on it." He came back over to Garrus with a syringe in his hand after giving it a few flicks to drive out air bubbles. Seating himself at a stool, the doctor gripped the syringe in one hand after he sterilized a portion of Garrus' cartilage near the wound. "You'll feel a little pinch in a second."

"What's in the syringe?" Garrus asked, not reacting when the needle bit into him.

"Local anesthetic. We're going to need to numb the area around the wound."

"Can't you just give me some medi-gel so that I can walk out of here?"

"Sure," Sam sarcastically intoned, "that's about as sound advice as defibrillating a flatliner or being gentle in giving CPR. Medi-gel isn't the be-all-end-all of medical solutions, Garrus. It has its limits. It _can't_, for instance, re-sew torn muscle and other deep tissue wounds, which is apparently what you have received just an hour ago."

The turian grunted as he laid his head back onto the bed. "I've used medi-gel exactly for that purpose in the past," he groused.

Sam tipped his HUD goggles down the bridge of his nose and tapped at Garrus' leg. "Yeah, and you're covered with scars as a result of that!" He gestured to the many marks that nicked and twisted at the turian's flesh that had already been garnered there years ago. "Medi-gel is great at stemming bleeding. Not so great at fibrous patchwork."

The doctor walked to a nearby counter and grabbed at a white ampoule and a little mirror. He set the items on a little stand next to Garrus.

"If you want, you can take care of those scratches to your face in the meantime. I'll only need a few minutes to fix your leg here."

Two medical sentry drones hovered into position above Garrus' leg while Sam took out a thick metal case and placed it on the counter near the window. He flipped the latches to the case and withdrew an enamel-colored object that looked like a soldering gun. The medical drones lowered to within a foot of Garrus' body and two razor-thin beams suddenly emitted from their lenses. Garrus looked down and saw that the projected light was actually a simulated hologram of a deep dive into his wound. X-rays were showing in real time, without any need for displays, the depth and direction of the laceration within the turian's body. It felt strange to Garrus to be able to look down and essentially see the breadth of the damage inside his body at the very spot where he had been pierced, though the sight was more anatomical than grisly.

The turian remembered the items the doctor had left for him and he reached over and snatched up the ampoule, which was a little canister of medi-gel. He dabbed the tiniest bit on a finger and he used the mirror to guide his own finger to the little cuts to his face that he had recently acquired.

Sam sat on his stool and lowered it a few inches so that he could be at a comfortable height to repair the turian's wound. "Nasty blade that did this," he said. "Who'd you piss off this time?"

"The Aeronaut," Garrus did not look at Sam as he continued to treat his face. "One of Aleph's goons was on the Citadel."

"No shit. This close by?"

"Yeah. I wanted to find out exactly what the rumblings in the underworld were about his outfit. Guess I got more than I bargained for."

Sam nodded as he twisted a dial on the curved tool in his hand, preparing it. "Find out anything of importance?"

Finished, Garrus set the mirror and medi-gel down before shaking his head. "Honestly? I'm just as confused as ever."

"Join the fucking club."

Sam's goggles used eye gestures for the main controls. He was able to zoom in and to see the extent of the damage the knife had given the turian by making a few rapid blinks. He made a few mental notes before he leaned in with his tool, which Garrus now recognized as a portable robotic-assisted surgical tool, colloquially known as a pRAST in the biz. After the doctor clipped it in on the side of the bed for stability, the pRAST began to eke out streams of barely visible light, the first probe into the chasm of the wound. Sam also held a tiny scalpel in his other hand, using it to occasionally poke and prod at the trauma. The anesthetic had already taken hold in Garrus, so all he was feeling was the occasional nudge of pressure with no pain to accompany it. He kept his head positioned towards the ceiling, not at all inclined to see his surgery take place before his eyes.

Inside the laceration, stemming and microscopic robotic arms extended from the barrel of the pRAST. Gently, little claws gripped the sheared muscle fibers and slowly pulled them together. Another arm with a caustic end then moved forward between the gripping arms, fusing the sheared strands with a warm glow and a faint hiss. The back of the pRAST glowed green to indicate to Sam that it was ready to proceed to the next area. He moved the tool back a millimeter or two and repeated the process for the torn tissues there.

It took a little more than five minutes to be able to reset Garrus' wound back to normal, but once the pRAST had successfully sewn up the entire gash and fused the wound over with a final cauterizing burst, it looked to Garrus like he had merely received a scratch from a household pet instead of a vicious slash from a knife. Sam slapped a bandage over the area for good measure and he began to put his equipment away after giving his patient the all-clear.

"As long as you don't do anything strenuous for a whole solar day, I doubt you'd even see a scar there," he told the turian. "Take it easy, let it heal, and you'll be right as rain in no time."

Garrus hopped off the bench, testing his leg and finding no impeding sensations to falter his gait. He gingerly stalked his way to the door before he put his hand on the wall to steady himself. He looked back with a forlorn gaze.

"Sam… I…"

"No need," Sam shook his head, not looking from where he was sealing everything back in their respective cases. He lifted the goggles from his head and gently deposited them onto the counter in front of him. "It's part of the job, remember?"

The turian dipped his head, a hesitant gesture. He seemed to be flirting on the inclination to leave, though there was something taking root in his mind, keeping him here. But Garrus gave one final glance towards the human, giving a murmur, "That it is."

Sam stood leaning against the counter, eyes closed, for a few minutes after Garrus had left. Taking in the silence, absorbing the notions of his being flung back into work. Shore leave was certainly fun while it lasted. He made a note to call his wife before the _Menhir_ undocked, to at least give himself some closure on his terms.

He looked out the window and saw that very few people outside were meandering along their set paths in the space around the commissary. He checked his chronometer—still a couple of hours until the _Menhir_ was due to depart. Breakfast would not be served until then. A shame, as Sam was starting to feel hungry.

Surreptitiously, Sam's hand reached down to a particular cabinet and pulled it towards him, revealing an apothecary-style bottle and a small glass. He withdrew the whisky, upon it in cursive was written the rather idiosyncratic name of "Octomore." He poured himself just a finger, which was certainly not enough to get a buzz from, but just to kickstart his mindset and to provide a needed semblance of comfort as the day started.

He was about to take a sip until the door opened once again. Sam sat up, nearly spilling his drink, expecting to see Garrus come back in for whatever reason, most likely because he had found a way to reopen his wound after being specifically told what not to do. However, Sam could only stare as Roahn hobbled her way in, back slightly hunched and her eyes unfocused.

He could immediately see that something was off with the quarian. "_Jesus Christ_, Commander," Sam blurted out as he tried to edge his glass out of sight. "What the… what the hell happened to you?!"

Roahn looked up at him and Sam could now see a little more closely that the quarian's appearance was slightly disheveled. _Sehni_ out of place, belt buckles not lining up, wrinkles on her enviro-suit at the arms. Immediately Sam understood what had happened to the quarian but he did not so much as give a flicker in his reaction. He noted that Roahn was clasping her hands over her stomach and was making faint wheezing noises. He kept his expression neutral as she walked over to him while trying to project a steadfast air.

"Sam," she said, fighting to suppress the grit in her tone, "do you happen to have… any antacids available?"

"Take something you weren't supposed to have?" Sam arched an eyebrow.

"Yes—I mean, no!—I mean…"

The man wondered if such flustered denials were really expected to draw his attention away from the true conclusion of Roahn's afflictions.

He decided to not be all that forgiving. He stabbed the air with a finger. "On the chair now," he ordered.

"I'm _fine_, Sam, I just need—"

"Oh my _god,_" Sam dramatically threw his hands up in the air. "Get on the goddamned chair, Roahn."

The quarian did as she was told. Sam noted Roahn's immediate relief in her eyes as she reclined back. Aches in joints, most likely. The fact that she was appearing to exhibit stomach pains and some hitches in her breathing were not to be discounted, either.

"_Everyone on this ship just blindly rushes into these things..."_ Sam muttered to himself as he scrambled to collect an assortment of different drugs in a small cabinet. "_No sense of caution whatsoever."_

Sam returned himself to the exact same stool he had been in while he was treating Garrus. Gone now was the youthful mirth that had sparkled his eyes. What had replaced it was a disappointed tribulation. He leaned in close to Roahn, who was staring back at him with a hefty dose of confusion.

But Sam did not speak just yet. Instead, he laid out the contents from the drug cabinet that he just raided upon the table to Roahn's immediate left. He made sure to position the labels so that Roahn would have no trouble reading them. Hydrogen peroxide solution, an antiseptic. mTor inhibitor pills, a gastrointestinal immunosuppressant. Epinephrine vapor, a medication for anaphylaxis. Roahn's eyes widened and widened as she read each one in turn, her head drooping all the way down as she got the gist of what Sam was suggesting.

Sam's arms had been crossed as he watched the quarian succumb to a dose of self-shame, but as a medical professional he was required to have these moments where sympathy fled him. "Doctor-patient confidentiality is something that I consider to be sacrosanct in this place. But I just need to know, Roahn, were you with the Lieutenant? Skye, I mean?"

The quarian's head shot back up, horrified. "How did you know?" she squeaked.

Sam's face fell and took on an _are-you-serious_ expression. "You're really asking _me_ that? Really? I'm probably one of two other people on this ship who can recognize an acute cross-species allergic reaction and I don't know any other human here who could possibly be the culprit of your afflictions other than Miss Lorne. You do realize that I have a _quarian_ wife, right?"

The mortified woman wished that she could just die right now. It had not even been half a day and already her love life had succumbed to being leaked. "Oh…" was all she could say.

Sam rolled his eyes as he unboxed the canister of vapor and handed it to Roahn. "Take this. Now. Your throat will close up in a matter of hours and I don't want to have to deal with that. Neither should you."

Roahn took the offered antidote and hooked it up to a port at the bottom of her helmet. She twisted the canister, grinding the seal together, making a dull locking noise. Vaporized epinephrine quickly flooded her helmet in a clear gas. Roahn's nose wrinkled. It had a slightly sterile smell to it. But in seconds, the wheezing from her lungs was gone and she could breathe just a little more easily. It felt like a hand had been removed from clenching around her windpipe—she grasped at her collar in relief.

Sam then tapped the immunosuppressants and the antiseptic. "Go back to your room, take the pills, and I'd recommend you sterilize in your bathroom right away to reduce the risk of a reaction on your skin. It's not going to be all that pleasant for you in the next couple of hours so I'd recommend you make your preparations and get into bed for the time being."

"I don't have much choice in the matter, is that it?" Roahn sardonically asked, but she took the medications anyway.

The doctor gave a derisive snort. "Would you rather I lecture you some more over you being so idiotic to enact sexual activities without medicating yourself beforehand? My god, I thought quarians were supposed to be nearly _paranoid_ of this kind of shit—"

"You're absolutely right," Roahn interjected as she hopped off the chair, her remedies in tow, "I _don't_ need to be subjected to this."

"Remember, bed rest!" Sam called after the retreating quarian.

Once he was alone, he crossed to the room and sagged back down into the chair he had previously vacated. He reached behind the shelf where he had hidden his glass of whisky, its contents undisturbed. He swirled the liquid in its container for a bit while he pondered. Any thoughts as to the commander's potentially illicit liaison with her subordinate were pretty much extinguished from Sam's mind. It was just not all that interesting for him to ponder over the sex lives of his fellow shipmates. He received no enjoyment from doing so, therefore he considered it to be none of his business unless that business happened to encroach onto medical matters, such as this case. He did take solace in the fact that if word of Roahn's relationship were to spread through the ship further, the origin would not be from him.

Sam raised his glass so that he could take his first needed sip. Already he was starting to feel a headache.

"Send in the next one," he muttered to no one in particular.

* * *

The _Menhir_ had undocked from the Citadel by the time Roahn awoke in her bed, though it was still maintaining a somnolent and drifting pattern above Earth for the time being. Skye had also left in that time, presumably to make her presence known elsewhere before anyone else got too suspicious. Nice of her to do that, if that was the case, Roahn considered.

Her stomach was still quite unhappy with her and there was a faint pricking sensation on her skin that was almost to the point where it was an uncontrollable irritation, but they were little torments that she could easily overcome.

Roahn rose from her tousled bed, re-made it, and then crossed into the bathroom so she could straighten herself out. Upon making sure that she looked like officer material once again, she left her room and headed for the lift so that she could get to the engineering level. She had recalled, before she had gone to bed with Skye, Korridon had mentioned that he was going to run a few tests on the artifact they had plucked from that little skirmish with Dark Horizon. Even if he only spent a couple hours researching it, she was still interested to see what he might have found out.

Wire-frame railings guided her to the thrumming heart of the ship. The drive core. Techs here were hunched over desks filled with matrices of data, but Korridon was among none of them. The engineering bay had a miniature lab down below which was where the turian usually kept his workstation. The stairwells were in the next room, in the hallway to the core. Roahn traveled down them and found Korridon in the dark, industrial, yet cozy space that was surprisingly limited to the arrays of sound being projected above from the hectic level. Unlike most of the ship, there was no shining or ergonomic paneling to otherwise make this part of the level hospitable. Struts and thick trunks of piping were scattered in every angle imaginable. Korridon's desk was situated in the middle of the underbelly, two tall yellow light stands flanking him and providing enough light to make the turian's surroundings somewhat livable.

The turian was entrenched deep into his analyses as he was quickly scything up variable charts and quickly repositioning them, making visual representations out of the data he had accrued. A hologram of the Reaper artifact, a virtual facsimile of the one that had been plucked so brazenly by Aleph from Roahn's own possession just a few days ago, languidly rotated in place, several data points collecting in a tree map overhead.

Korridon had heard the quarian tromping down the stairs and had shifted his head to catch Roahn's eyes as she rounded the corner. "Commander, you're awake," he said. There was a variable shift in his temperament as his head rotated a mere degree. "How'd your talk with Skye go last night?"

Roahn was already feeling that she had stepped into a minefield the very second she had embarked on… whatever her and Skye were involved in. Korridon was not stupid—he had told her just yesterday that he knew there was an unusual relationship between her and the human. The slight grating inflection on his voice, rawer than usual for the turian to adopt, was an indication that he felt that he knew something that he was not supposed to.

_Is he trying to maneuver around the fact that he thinks that I slept with Skye? Or… is there something else that I'm not seeing here? Something that Korridon doesn't want me to see?_

"I'd say the two of us managed to reach a mutual consensus on our behavior," she mustered as naturally as she could.

"I see," Korridon said, though that statement could very well have had multiple layers to it.

How he must think of her. If he really knew what had occurred, would she be diminished in his eyes? Roahn had just told the man last night that her tumultuous interactions with Skye had severely hampered her ability to think rationally about the woman, not to mention the fact that she had also admitted that it was for a particularly drastic reason why they had broken up the first time. And despite all that, she had given in at the end. Weakness on her part? Or empathy?

Would Korridon see the difference or could he only see the truth? A truth that Roahn was blind to?

She took the seat that Korridon was currently vacating, already desperate to change the subject. "Make any progress on your research? I know you had only a couple hours, but I'm just as interested as you to find out more on these artifacts."

The turian gave her a blank look. "A couple hours? Roahn… I haven't stopped working since we set foot on the ship."

Roahn's eyes shifted back and forth once, taking her a while to comprehend. "You've been at this all the time?! I don't… _keelah_, Korr. You still had time left over from your shore leave!"

"I know, but I couldn't sleep. Don't be too upset with me, Roahn, because I think I've figured a few things out with these artifacts."

The quarian had been in the middle of uttering an order for Korridon to go and get some rack when her still-too-slow brain finally caught up with what she was doing. Now she was looking foolish, hanging her finger in the air for no reason.

"You… found something?" she finally mumbled out, her arm slowly dropping back to her side.

"Not much, but I wanted to run it by you anyway."

The turian now looked particularly excited and he reached over to pull up another chair that had been stashed away behind him. The orange of his facepaint now looked particular burnt in this light, the color of a caramel candy, but his eyes were sparkling like precious opals. Something had gotten this man pretty worked up.

Not much? Roahn doubted it.

"What do you know about Reaper technology?" Korridon asked.

"A lot," Roahn said flatly, not knowing if the circumstances for such knowledge in her case needed to be said out loud.

Thankfully the turian seemed to get the point. "Stupid of me to ask, I know, but the reason why I asked was to see if you knew anything about their technology _apart_ from indoctrination?"

"Apart from indoctrination?" Roahn repeated.

A faint oscillation of light appeared to crest the edge of Korridon's face. Roahn had to blink to clear her vision because in one moment, she was looking at the turian, then in the next, she was unexpectedly staring at a purpled visor wreathed in stormy fabric. The illusion flexed, jerked in a glitch-like motion, and evaporated in seconds like deteriorating pixels on a screen, leaving nary a trace behind save for Roahn's suddenly elevated pulse.

"It's just something I noticed last night… a strange occurrence," Korridon mused, not noticing Roahn's sudden agitation. "Indoctrination's usually the one thing that people think of when Reapers are involved, but I made a simple experiment and I saw something that I couldn't find mentioned at all in extranet research journals. I was scattering stray bits of biological material around it, just to see if there would be a reaction, and my instruments did manage to pick up faint traces of energy spikes—the tiniest blips you could imagine—whenever the matter made contact."

Roahn's wits had returned to her in time to catch the last half of what the turian had said. "So it… reacts with organic material. Almost exactly like how the Reapers processed organics to fuel new Reapers."

"It seems to corroborate a theory, Roahn. Reaper technology becomes more… _potent_, for lack of a better word, when exposed to new sources of organic material. What was witnessed during the war was that processed organics apparently went through a sequence in which their DNA was combined into a conglomerate to interact with the Reaper itself. It stood to reason that the Reapers required a significant amount of organics—people—in order for its 'connection' to be more stable with its own technology. So, in other words..."

"The more organic material, the better the interaction between the Reaper," Roahn finished. "A conglomerate, like you said. Makes sense, though I don't see how that would be much of an issue for us now with the Reapers being destroyed."

"Just something to think about. A material that attunes more intensely to beings within its sphere of influence is something that I wouldn't discount, in my personal opinion."

Roahn gave a slow nod, understanding. "You make a fair point. Was that all you found out?"

"No, there was something more serious," Korridon pointed at the hologram of the spherical artifact, the gnarled and patternless scars upon its face twisting and bulging its otherwise perfect shape. "Okay," he said, "you remember that when we first brought that on the ship, we discovered it was emitting radiation?"

"I remember. But it was harmless. Non-ionizing."

"Harmless, non-ionizing radiation," Korridon repeated. "A bit convenient, wouldn't you think?"

Roahn did not understand. If the answers were somehow locked within that encrusted and hellish sphere, then she did not have the first clue, nor the inclination, to unlock the demons from their prison.

The turian pressed on. "So, it's a Reaper artifact emitting radiation relatively harmless to organics. But all of the elements that made up this artifact, as we found, were _not_ radioactive. That means, when the Reapers had created this for whatever reason, they had it deliberately irradiated."

"But why would the Reapers do such a thing? What good would irradiating this thing do them?"

"That's what I was wondering as well," Korridon said, beginning to turn giddy. "Until I took a look at some of the protracted scans of the thing." He then reached over to the computer console and brought up a wavelength chart, presumably of the artifact's radiation profile, from what Roahn could gather. The frequency of the object was a mirrored and alternating series of jagged crests and low rolling waves. But there was something else to the underlying structure of the wavelength that Roahn was able to spot in seconds. Razor-sharp lines, then slow and undulating humps. Then razor-sharp lines. And back to the humps. The razor-sharp lines would then come take their place… followed by the humps.

"A _pattern_," Roahn realized. "A repeating pattern of radiation."

"_That_ certainly doesn't happen in nature," Korridon nodded. "It's not just meaningless radiation, Roahn. It's a signal."

Roahn yanked her head around. "A signal? To _whom?_"

"If I'd have to guess, I'd say the collective Reaper mind, though no one's listening now. This was probably a mechanism for the Reapers to always know where they left their artifacts. After all, these are the same machines that managed to find their way to our galaxy every 50,000 years. They had to have advanced navigation technology to be able to travel for such distances with such precision. Perhaps these artifacts have been nothing more than navigation beacons for the Reapers. They continuously transmitted this radiation as a signal for the Reapers to follow back to here. It's rather ingenious, if you ask me. But that's where I think I found the key, Roahn."

"If the artifacts were meant to work as beacons," Roahn was now starting to realize, "then why can't we use its wavelength to find other artifacts around the galaxy that are transmitting the same signal?"

Korridon gesticulated wildly as he gave a grin in his fervor. "Like how black holes can be found by pinpointing sources of x-ray radiation! We use the artifact's signal to act as a beacon for the other artifacts!"

Roahn leapt to her feat, temporarily overcome. "That's… Korr, that's brilliant!" She nearly threw her arms around the turian but managed to control herself at the last second. "You realize what this means if you really can trace the signal? We could… we could find all the artifacts that Aleph hasn't gotten his hands on yet and grab them before he can! Or… wait… if he's been stockpiling these things… then wouldn't that mean that he would be near the strongest source of this type of radiation? We could… we could track Aleph's actual location! This is how we find him! This… Korr, what's wrong?"

The turian's mandibles had suddenly stilled and the glint in his eyes had become less lustrous, his body posture noticeably slumping. He slowly tapped his fingers upon the console as he drew in a long breath. "Well… there is a bit of a snag on that part."

"And what might that be?"

"One thing that I did notice is that, based on what research was performed prior to the Reapers' defeat, was that every one of the Reapers and their artifacts are interlinked with one another. They are bound by a symmetrical genetic key—meaning that the elemental compound that comprises them all comes from the same source, or was engineered to be genetically identical. This most likely also assisted the Reapers with their navigation, if they had the ability to hone in on items with the same elemental code."

"So what's the problem, then?" Roahn pressed.

Korridon waved a hand, gesturing to the artifact. "The signal on this thing is too weak to act as a singular beacon by itself. The artifacts were meant to work in tandem, comprising an entire signal network. We need to replicate a more refined signal before we can use it to track Aleph, otherwise our scanning scope will be too broad to hone in on specific sources."

Roahn could have laughed out loud. The solution to this was so simple it was almost elegant. Yet there was a refined complexity to it all. A missing piece to the puzzle. The quarian hunched over, rubbed her hands in anticipation before she finally stood back up, affixing a hateful glare to the artifact of the hologram, knowing full well the simulacra of the object did not deserve her ire, but it was the one object in this room she could focus her anger upon.

Turning back to Korridon, Roahn let the cold light of the hologram fall upon the side of her head, the only lurking energy that she would dare allow to crawl at her body.

"What you're saying is that we need to get _another_ artifact."

* * *

"We need to get _what?!_" Garrus gaped, certain he had misheard his XO.

Their backs to the galactic mimeo that the CIC provided, Roahn and Korridon shared a look between each other before the quarian spoke up. "That's what we're saying, yes. If we're going to be able to track Aleph, we're going to need to find another artifact."

Garrus was still in a perplexed state. His hand was resting upon his wounded leg, which was nearing the conclusion of its healing period, but the turian was still favoring his weight upon his good leg for the time being. The shrouded guardrails that rimmed the arrowhead shaped dais, a beacon that gently provoked his presence, shimmered dully as he ran a hand along the contours, having bypassed Roahn and Korridon to get there. The vibrant dust cloud of lightborn scintilla wrapped in the greedy whirlpool tendrils projected luminous, bathing his face in light, even through the harsh blue glare of his eyepiece.

The world-weary captain cocked his head at Liara, who had been in the vicinity of the initial conversation. The asari's interest had been piqued at what she had heard, naturally gravitating closer and closer to the hubbub this new line of dialogue was sparking. He then turned around, a hand scratching at the upper reaches of his fringe.

"I never wanted to mess with these things ever again. Reaper artifacts. All they bring back are bad memories and enough people on this ship have too many of those. I know. _I'm_ one of those people."

"You wanted Umbra to be proactive," Roahn stepped forward, knotted nerve steeling her gaze. "This is how we get there."

"But are we sure of the risks?" Garrus sighed. "If we're going to do this, Roahn, I need to know that I've exhausted every last possibility out there. It's my duty to make the decisions that protect all of you. One artifact alone is asking for trouble. With two on board… that just exponentially complicates things. Puts all of us in danger. I'm supposed to keep you all _safe_, damn it. That is my job."

"And if we're too late? If we end up wasting our chance by being too cautious…?"

Roahn left the question hanging, its intent perfectly clear. Garrus affixed her with a purposeful look, his eyes deluging stories of their own without him even saying a word. Those eyes then subtly flicked over to Korridon, who, at this point, had been happy enough to stay on the sidelines for the majority of this conversation.

"This is what _he's_ saying is we need to do?" Garrus may have been looking at Korridon, but the question was still given to Roahn.

Almost helplessly, Roahn made a tender nudge of her head, hoping her worried glance did not become too transparent. "I believe him."

"Hmm."

Garrus did not have anything else to say, though Roahn did note his stiff behavior when referring to Korridon, almost as if the younger turian was not even in the room, let alone within earshot.

Finally, something within the turian seemed to cede and his posture softened up. Garrus turned to Liara, his demeanor now more open and warm. "I know we don't have a choice. But if there are any other suggestions anyone has… now's the time to speak up."

No one did. Everyone kept their jaws clamped shut tightly.

"Right, I figured that," Garrus said. He gave his mandibles a singular twitch as he looked over at Roahn. "No more caution, then?"

Roahn slowly shook her head, the twin motes of her eyes managing to hang still behind her visor. "No more caution… Captain."

Air rushed from Garrus' nose in the barest sense of a chuckle that could be defined. He wobbled upon his feet until he managed to find his center of gravity before gingerly taking the steps up to the platform of the CIC, extending a hand like he was about to plunge it into the shining mass of simulated stars.

"You say there's a network of these things scattered out there," he said. "Millions upon millions of these things might be hidden on worlds we might not even know about. The only problem is we don't have an idea where to start."

"If I may," Liara said as she walked around the CIC towards where the dais was situated, "that's not entirely accurate."

Garrus gave a pause. "Can… you be a little more specific?"

The asari simply gave a pleasant smile as she folded her hands behind her back. "I might just have an idea where to start. Or, to put it more clearly, I think I know where the closest artifact might be."

"You're kidding. How could you possibly…" Garrus looked up at the ceiling in self-doubt as he noticed the asari's grin broadening. "Oh. Right. The whole… 'Shadow Broker' thing."

Liara shrugged, enjoying the moment. "I always figured it would come in handy to keep a few resources for myself."

"Wait…" Korridon leaned over so he could whisper to Roahn, "_she's_ the—?"

"_Ex_-Shadow Broker," Roahn muttered out of the corner of her mouth. "She retired that alias before either of us were born."

Korridon blinked as a veil of his obliviousness was abruptly peeled away. He had to fight himself from staring too overtly at the asari, not wanting to draw out any feelings of awkwardness. The urge was difficult—after all, it was one thing to work alongside a hero of the _Normandy_, but another matter entirely to learn that one of those heroes had been moonlighting as perhaps the most dastardly collector of information the galaxy had ever known. Days on the _Menhir_ certainly were never set by a fixed script, Korridon could say that much.

"In any case," Liara said as she stepped up alongside Garrus and stretched out a hand to activate the galaxy map, digging through the various layers until the view arrived at a local slice of the sector, "we don't have to venture far to find the next one. According to a few intercepted reports, the Alliance have another artifact that they have sealed away on a secret facility right… here." Liara scrolled the view out so that the entire solar system was now within the confines of the map, but the asari toggled the control and moved the cursor towards the edge of the delicately bound dance the planets made with its sun. She specifically centered the cursor on the final planet in the sequence. A little dialogue box marked "NEPTUNE" popped up.

"It's there?" Roahn tilted her head as the marble-blue cloud of storms slowly zoomed in.

Liara shook her head. "Not on the gas giant. One of its moons. This one, specifically. Triton. It has a surface that is frozen nitrogen, meaning surface temperatures of -235 degrees Centigrade. A young crust, though part of its surface erratically erupts sublimated nitrogen gas. Its core is dense, though its gravity is quite weak. The base, Aegir Station, was built shortly after humans discovered the Charon relay. It was used as a communications hideout up until the war ended and apparently was converted to a classified storage facility afterward. On several of those intercepted messages, there are many references to an object conveying similar properties to the artifact that we liberated. It's more than likely that, considering the recent spate of thefts the Alliance has suffered, they have moved their supply of artifacts into more secretive locations in an attempt to halt their losses."

"That won't stop Aleph," Roahn growled. "We all know that, when he does find this station, he won't let anyone stand in his way of the artifact. Everyone there will die if he or his minions show up."

"And yet it's not like the Alliance is just going to let us walk out with the artifact if we ask them nicely," Garrus mulled as he brought a hand to his chin. "We're technically not supposed to know about these things and I doubt we have the goodwill or the charm to have them hand it over to us."

The quarian let her hand drift atop the thick glass of the console station. Metallic fingers clinked against the polished surface, leaving clear streaks behind from the dust-scattered glaze. Her heart stilled, something catching deep within her, her lips thrumming with the urge to speak.

But Garrus turned. Blue eyes caught her own, spearing through their own glass coverings to find a hopeful truth. A lamentable conclusion.

"Which leaves us only one option," Garrus sighed. He swept his gaze about the room, hoping to catch any glimpse of any doubt but could find only resolved stares or otherwise eager anticipation. He noticed Roahn straighten out of the corner of his eye and he gave her a knowing glance before he proceeded further. "We ensure Aleph does not get this artifact, because _we're_ going to steal it first."

* * *

**A/N: All right, so now that shore leave's over for the _Menhir_ crew, we're going to begin to jump headfirst into the next act of the story. This where things will start to go off the rails, so you'd better buckle in.**

**Stay safe and stay healthy out there. That's all I ask for you guys right now, okay?**

**Playlist:**

**Artifact Discussion**  
**"Hydraulic Lift"**  
**Jóhann Jóhannsson**  
**Arrival (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**The Decision (Reprise)**  
**"The Manifesto"**  
**Lorne Balfe**  
**Mission Impossible: Fallout (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	25. Chapter 25: Heist I - Scattered Night

"_You will need to play multiplayer to be able to unlock the best endings. Apologies to those with insufficient bandwidth or lack of Xbox Live, looks like you will be missing out."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Menhir__  
Comm Room_

Roahn recalled that the last time all of Umbra had been gathered together was during its orientation briefing. Ever since then, they had all gone on their separate paths, each diverging only to sparingly connect up in scattershot factions, all moving in different circles while still managing to remain on their unit's course. As such, the comm room felt particularly brimmed, saturated by the very presence of the people the ship was designed to carry. Everyone had been invited to this particular briefing by Garrus, who had duly recognized the importance of the upcoming mission, in no small part spurred on by the forcefulness of his executive officer.

As vehement as she was, Roahn held no reservations about her previous conduct.

The conference table had been sprouted from where it had been residing within the floor and the precise amount of chairs had been ringed around to accommodate the whole of Umbra. Fat coils of wires like loose intestines rimmed the outline of the room, which still had not received the finishing cosmetic touches to mark itself as wholly complete. Thin stripes of sizzling light from the overhead lamps cut wide pyramids of brightness amongst the room to saturate every corner, purging the darkness from it. Many of the people at the table were blinking in the sudden harshness, unused to being placed underneath such a stern and unforgiving gaze.

Roahn was seated next to Garrus, who was at the head of the table. Shepard took the other end opposite from the turian. It looked like he was a mile away from this perspective. Skye, Korridon, Liara, Grunt, Sam, and a hologram of Sagan (whose physical body continued to helm the ship) joined Roahn in keeping themselves momentarily present and alert, intrigued to hear their new course of action and their next immediate orders.

Upon deciding that now was an appropriate time to start, Garrus waved a hand and the lights dimmed down to dull slashes. He tapped at a few holographic keys on the pad in front of him—a planetary system quickly blipped into place above the center of the table. A marmoreal sphere of chipped ultramarine and ashen wax. A dark spot in the lower half of the planet appeared as an imperfection in its visual representation. Fourteen denoted natural satellites were quickly marked with glowing fire-orange icons around the planet. Garrus tapped again and the view zoomed in to one of these satellites, the planet quickly being forgotten. An unremarkable body of mantle-like frost and pockmarked dry plains now hung before the group, with a few of its natural formations—mere curiosities—being pointed out by the system, their labels being connected by thin yellow marks.

Garrus reached out a limber hand and gestured to a part of the moon, which was now blown up in a topographical format. A cadre of frost-scarred and weary buildings punctured the base of a mountain, a badly maintained landing pad the largest manmade formation in sight in terms of square yards.

"Aegir Base," the turian said to the group. "The moon it's located on is called Triton. Orbits the planet Neptune. The base is an Alliance facility, built after turians first made contact with humans. Aegir Base was initially constructed as a secret listening outpost, meant to be used as a place to carry out any clandestine spying without encroaching onto anyone else's territory. These days, its use as a communications outpost has waned—instead, the Alliance is apparently now using it as a storage facility for some of their more _sensitive_ items. And according to Liara, one of these items could very well be another Reaper artifact."

Everyone kept their reactions muted and refined, save for Grunt who began to lean in closer in anticipation. Garrus scanned his eyes across the table, as if he was waiting for an unspoken cue for him to proceed.

"It has been made clear to me," he gave a tender glance to Roahn, "that the current pace of our operations, while significant, has not been enough to turn the tide. In some part, I am in agreement with these observations. What I am going to propose is not an appeasement to those reports, but merely a way to capitalize on a stray bit of luck we have inexplicably garnered. From what we have learned over the past few weeks, an opportunity to halt whatever machinations our enemy has in mind has been revealed." Garrus laid his hands flat on the table in a gesture of seriousness. "The artifacts that are being taken obviously have some value to the person who has orchestrated their thefts. Now, rather than try to scour the galaxy for the ones that were stolen, it would be easier for us to try and secure the ones that haven't."

Sam creaked his chair forward as he raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying that… _we_ steal this thing from the Alliance before it's inevitably stolen?"

Garrus gave his tongue a soft gnaw before he nodded his head. "That's the line of thinking, yes."

The doctor leaned back in his chair after delivering a thoughtful blink, having nothing else to say. Understandably the man had found a lot of irony in what had been Garrus' opening salvo. More than likely everyone else was thinking the same thing, just that Sam was the only one to say it out loud.

"I would understand if anyone thinks this is a deviation from what you had signed up to do," Garrus now took on a forlorn look, the battle-weary leader maintaining his averse outlook on life taking charge of the man. "After all, we were created to stop the PMC threat, not to basically rob our own allies. Well, upon looking at all the evidence, I believe that our allies are either ignorant of the encroaching threat not to mention incapable of defending themselves from it. Any artifacts in their hands will end up in the possession of Aleph, his group Dark Horizon, or some other corporation at some point in the near future. It's not a matter of '_if'_ but '_when_.'"

A few scattered murmurs did a lap around the room. Roahn and Shepard were the only ones to keep their gazes fixated upon their captain, their hands similarly folded in front of them as they remained rapt and focused.

Garrus took a breath. "When the corporations wrest control of these artifacts, they will be ruthless and without remorse. We will do it differently. Deceit and clever tactics will be utilized by us too, but in the end, we will pull this off without hurting _anyone_. Securing the artifact at Aegir will be our first priority, no doubt, but equally important is that none of the Alliance guards defending the base gets anything worse than a flesh wound. No one on that moon is to be harmed, got it?" Garrus' fist slammed down on the table for emphasis, creating a pummeling shockwave that hammered the table and silenced the scattered bits of conversation. The turian's blue eyes then took the time to enrapture every member of his crew for two seconds each, making sure that they were paying attention to what he was about to say. "We have enough enemies in this galaxy. No need for us to make more. With that in mind, does anyone have any objections to this plan?"

The reverberations from the _Menhir's_ drive core was the only sound that could be discerned in the moments succeeding the aftermath of Garrus' statement. Each person around the table stiffened. Some looked down at their laps before looking back up again. Others chewed their lips. But no one spoke. Not a squirm or breath of protest. The quorum had come back with a decisive answer for the captain. Umbra was unanimous.

Roahn was sure that Garrus had cracked a turian version of a smile, even if it was only for a split-second. Relief at being allowed to proceed with the plan or emotion for the fact that he had managed to instill this kind of loyalty? In either case, Roahn made sure that her eyes conveyed a swell of approval as she looked upon the turian, hoping that he would realize that her support for him was so vast he could drown in it.

"Right," the turian nodded. "To that end, I'll turn things over to Shepard. He'll present you some of the finer details of this plan. Shepard?"

At the other end, it took Shepard a moment to stand up as his deteriorating balance had turned him wobbly for a second. Perhaps he was still shaken up after being handed a few good whacks after dealing with the Aeronaut. Regardless, Roahn had nearly raced over to her father in a panic, but calmed down when he managed to stand up just fine, though it was with a breathy look that he managed to hide from the group by turning his head away. Her muscles unclenched warily.

Roahn could see right through the man—he was hurting. She always had had that ability. And what she saw simply made her sad. Sad for what he had to endure, what impossible goals he could not possibly live up to.

Shepard dipped his hand towards the table, asserting control over the holographic view. A blueprint of the facility (courtesy of Liara) was now being beamed up in lieu of the topographic map. The interior of the facility was not as large as Roahn had expected—four floors, the standard bunking arrangements, and cordoned off areas for cargo or labworks. Not so much of a fortress but that of a small outpost, which Aegir certainly was. Still, Roahn would have figured that the Alliance would have sent the artifact to a place that would have seemed a lot more secure instead of shipping it all the way to this godforsaken rock.

Though the quarian knew full well that looks could be deceiving—her father's past exploits had practically seen this sort of scenario several times over. Perhaps Aegir's unassuming image was meant to act as a façade, a decoy to those seeking out the Reaper artifacts. After all, why would anyone bother looking for something of such importance in such a lonely and remote location?

"Now," Shepard began as a hand rubbed at his grizzled chin, "I've actually had some experience with Aegir Station before. For a few years, it was utilized as a location to stage N7 training for harsh environment adaptation. Of course, they may have changed a few things since then, but we've been able to secure a floor plan of the base that's been more recently timestamped. Fortunately, it all seems to be as exactly as I had remembered."

Shepard made a double-tapping motion with his wrist and the blueprint zoomed in to what Roahn assumed was the foyer, judging by the presence of a door icon at the bottom of the screen. "Right away, there is something that we will be able to use to our advantage before we even arrive. Aegir was overhauled in recent years to have automated systems perform a good host of the security duties. Normally a place like this would staff a full complement of soldiers, perhaps thirty or forty, though from what I've seen I would be surprised if they quartered more than twenty men here. But twenty is still a lot to neutralize without incurring any fatalities, so what is going to be critical is the initial incursion. And this is where our advantage comes into play."

Shepard lifted his arm, omni-tool activated, upon which the Alliance logo was proudly emblazoned next to a screen filled with signed and notarized documents. He only held the emblem up for a couple seconds, knowing that others would be intrigued to hear exactly what relevance that had to do with this entire plan.

"The Alliance never ended up rescinding my access to certain parts of the network," he explained. "As far as I can tell, my credentials as a commander are still active. I'm what you call a 'legacy soldier' these days. But that means that I can _link_ my credentials to the _Menhir_ and to the incursion team, giving them access to the facility, at least to the first interior gate."

"Who's going to lead the incursion team?" Korridon asked.

"I will be leading the initial infiltration in order to seal the ruse," Shepard nodded. "Having a human at the helm will help allay suspicion to our true intentions. But after that, ground operations will be led by the captain and commander."

Roahn leaned forward, the tip of her helmet catching a stray ray from the holo-projector and throwing a refraction off the nearby wall. "The Alliance will be running security checks on anyone that enters the base, as this technically is a restricted facility. Anyone without prior military authorization will be detected right away, so it will be best that all the team members going into the base will have had military experience beforehand. That way, we'll be able to easily transition your files over to the Alliance's own protocol. So, Korridon, you and Skye will be joining us on this one."

"Roger that," Skye slid her hand across the table.

Korridon looked over at the red-haired woman next to him before he dipped his head in a mild nod towards Roahn. Trepidation. _He's scared. Smart of him. Perhaps he's the only one who sees the insanity in things these days._

"The good news is that, if we're assuming the maximum possibility of twenty soldiers at Aegir, they don't all stay at the base at once," Shepard continued. "They run regular patrols around the perimeter, two squads at a time. Our best bet to neutralize the staff without incident is, once we're past the security checkpoint with our modified credentials, we subdue the guards manning the checkpoint, order them to assemble the base personnel at the entrance, in which case we force them to stand down. We'll be heavily armed and will have taken them completely by surprise. Alliance soldiers aren't taught to recklessly attack when caught off guard—they'll have no choice but to surrender."

"If everything goes to plan," Sam murmured, his arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't suppose you have a better one?" Garrus craned his head around.

Roahn ignored them both as she took the reins of the briefing. She delicately tapped her prosthetic finger upon the table, the _metal-on-metal_ sound carrying over the voices of the bickering.

"Once we're inside," she said, "it's only a matter of carving our way through whatever defenses the Alliance has set up to get to the artifact. If there are electronics in the vault, I can hack them. If the vault requires biometrics, the captain can obtain them. It'll then be up to Korridon," her left arm gently moved in the direction of the turian, "to assemble and configure the collected signal that we will then use to triangulate Aleph's position. Understand? This means that out of all of us, Korridon comes back in one piece, got it?"

Now everyone's head seemed to snap over to fix their stares upon the young turian. Korridon froze in place, the already shy man now petrified as he was abruptly put under the spotlight. Roahn could see the turian's mandibles faintly twitching—perhaps a call of courage for him to say a word to bolster his nerves? If that was the case, it certainly did not seem to be doing him any good for his mouth was still tightly clamped shut.

"If the worst _does_ come to pass," Skye thankfully piped up, relieving the turian from his burden, "and we end up having to shoot our way out… what will be the plan?"

Still seated at the head of the table, Garrus scratched at his chin thoughtfully, clearly not relishing what he was about to say. "Go for non-lethal shots as much as possible. Keep casualties to a minimum. But if you have to kill to save your life or the lives of your crew, then you take the shot. We will deal with the ramifications of that later if that ends up happening, but for all our sakes… I certainly hope that it does not."

His words, correct though they might have been, did not contain enough comfort to put everyone at ease. Now everyone was juggling stray and jumbled thoughts about their upcoming mission potentially going to hell in a handbasket at a moment's notice. Not a good mindset on the eve of such a display of their performance. With stakes like these, everyone needed to be at their prime. Prepared.

Everyone needed to come back alive.

Garrus' chair rasped as he stood, a now serene look falling across him as his brain settled into the familiar embrace of dopamine, delivered unto the rapidly approaching commencement of the operation. Battle chemicals, a learned trait. That knee-jerk reaction that could only be acquired through experience. It was what separated the adept from the greenhorns. Threats of violence no longer excited them. They _bored_ them.

"If there's nothing else," he said, "you're dismissed to your stations. We'll be landing on Triton in less than four hours. I'd suggest you make your preparations prior to our landing."

With that, the turian reached down to the table and depressed the haptic switch, the hologram of the base flickering out like a bulb of flame smothered between finger and thumb.

* * *

Some time later Roahn found herself at the mercy of her own habit to wander, a constant vagabond roaming the ship in search of understanding or some hidden meaning. Her legs moved of their own accord, leading her down the neck of the ship to where the cockpit was. Bit by bit her myopia faded, leaving her all the more curious why she had chosen to direct herself this way. The light here was thin and the color of delicate ice. The depressed chairs on either side of the aisle were filled with all walks of life, techs concentrating upon their duties that their monitors were displaying in front of them, their silent and tome-like instructors.

Still she walked forward, disregarding them for now. All around her, shadows seemed to rise and fall in unison, as if a deep wave had infiltrated her vision. Her ability to tell distance sloped, suddenly skewed, bringing her a hint of vertigo. Roahn had to hold out a hand to steady herself once she had reached the airlock door, the final partition before the cockpit.

A smattering of voices told her that the room just ahead was already occupied. If it had been merely Sagan in his pilot's chair then Roahn would not have minded—she could have been able to nab some time alone with her thoughts. But there was a non-synthetic voice directly corresponding with the geth right now. Male. Inquisitive.

"You clangorous buffoon! How _dare_ you insult the legacy of that ship?!"

_What… the… hell…?_

Roahn peeked her head out to spot Sam sitting in the copilot's chair, turned towards the geth who was currently in the middle of running multiple diagnostic programs at once while simultaneously attending to his piloting duties. Neither of them noticed her. Sagan did not as much as twitch towards the human to respond to his question—that was not meant to be disrespectful as synthetics did not have use to replicate such organic nuances.

Sam, at the moment, was particularly agitated if the movement of his arms was to be the sole giveaway. His eyes were wide and bulging in astonishment, most likely because he was apparently in the middle of a heated disagreement.

"I do not understand your frustration," Sagan's tone was even and Roahn could pick out the slight tinge of confusion in it. "And I am not sure why you believe this is a subject suited for debate. It should be recognizable that the capabilities of the C-APV _Menhir_ are superior to that of the SSV _Normandy_ SR-2."

The doctor bent his head to rub at his hair in a show of turmoil. "It's the _way_ you say it, Sagan. You make sound so… _decisive_ with your tone that the _Menhir_ is the overall better ship when you know full well that the _Normandy's_ achievements are not to be discounted!"

"The _Normandy's_ accomplishments were realized within its performance specifications. The _Menhir_ is rated to attain greater thresholds."

"On paper."

"In reality," the geth countered.

"Yet the _Normandy_ is symbolic," Sam persisted. "It holds just as much reverence for people in this galaxy like the _Wright Flyer_ does for humans."

"The _Wright Flyer_," Sagan said, "is symbolic due to it being the first aeronautical device to achieve controlled flight on Earth. The _Normandy's_ importance stems from its prominent placement in several operations during the Reaper War theater. To counter your point about the organic notion of reverence, the _Menhir_ lacks the same attention because it has never capitalized on a moment to bolster its public prominence as its operations under the Umbra banner are considered classified." The geth gave a plaintive pause before he swiveled his head over to meet Sam's eyes, twin lenses of cerulean gleaming underneath a polished and ornate tawny hood. "It is a category that lacks weight, Samuel. Notoriety is not a benchmark for performance specifications."

Roahn could see, even from her shadowed corner, that Sam's lip was sourly curling as he was sent scurrying for a verbal riposte. She would have gladly jumped in to defend the honor of her father's old ship, yet there was something so entertaining about watching the man try to win in an argument against a geth. It just seemed like Sam had automatically set himself up for failure by trying to change the mind of a synthetic. Not that such a thing could not be done—as history had proved—but Sam lacked the diplomatic chops to make such a thing happen.

"So the new overtake the old, is that it?" Sam mustered a sad, little smirk.

"As is the way of all things. Improvements to the armaments, propulsion, and maneuverability would automatically indicate clear superiority between the two vessels. Despite the prominent statistics, you choose to place your support in that of the _inferior_ vessel. Why?"

Sam brushed at his coat, swiping at a few patches of invisible dust. "Sentiment. Nostalgia. Fond memories, however the hell you want to put it. Plus a little bit of irrationality."

Sagan's head tilted in a clear expression of confusion. It was apparent that Sam had stumped the geth from his clear contradictions in logic—the result was that the gears in Sagan's head must have been whizzing at Mach 5 trying to make sense of it all.

"Then you admit the _Menhir's_ superiority?"

The man shook his head, dry amusement washing over him. "Not as of right now, Sagan."

"I don't understand," was the geth's blunt response. "What is preventing you from altering your opinion in this matter?"

"Very simple," Sam shrugged. "_Time_, Sagan. All it is, is time."

Undetectable to all except himself, all Sagan really wanted in this moment was to pinpoint the true meaning behind Sam's comment because all he was coming up with was an electrical signal that distantly translated to frustration in the bits of silicon that made up the geth's "brain." Life for Sagan was a series of 1s and 0s arranged perfectly into a translatable sequence that acted as the road map for his entire story. Organics, and this was the case with Sam especially, equated to a series of aberrant and altogether irrational behaviors that steered Sagan's previous deductions about the minds of all the species to be completely irrelevant. Files of observant deductions, closest in classification to "notes", had been categorized in tangled hierarchies of folders upon folders in Sagan's core memory. Every time he came up against a behavior or a comment that was in direct contradiction to his jotted information was deleted. Sagan must have thrown out at least a thousand terabytes of these esoteric bits of research over the years.

But on the outside, the immovable and stoic form of the gladiatorial synthetic appeared content. At ease. As though each flippant comment bounced off that shining armor of his.

If only that were the case. Those comments never bounced. They merely stuck.

Sam had clasped his hands together while the geth had run through his instantaneous ruminations, another topic already in mind. Clearly the man was anxious to move onto other discourse in which he would not be pitted against what was effectively a digital encyclopedia. _Keen to play to his strengths after losing some ground,_ Roahn thought.

"What a journey you must have had. Planet-bound on Rannoch, set in storage at a quarian research facility, and now flying the most advanced ship in the galaxy. So is it really true? You really don't remember anything prior to when Roahn reactivated you? Not a thing?"

If Sagan was thrown by this sudden conversational shift, there had been no millimetrical fluctuation of his platform to indicate as such.

"My core memory contains no records prior to the day when Creator Roahn'Shepard reactivated me," Sagan said matter-of-factly, his blue aperture shimmering through the glaring orange of his haptic monitors. He twisted a gleaming arm of tawny armor and synthetic muscle, his lanky fingers precisely fiddling with a holographic dial. "I have been unable to procure any files that would ascertain to my previous whereabouts."

Sam anxiously rubbed his hands together as he leaned forward, propping his head up with his hands as his elbows fell upon his thighs. "Surely there must be something in there. Like… how you got those marks right there on your armor? You ever wonder where they came from?"

The human pointed to a spot on Sagan's chest, the place where the geth's armor looked like it had melted and re-hardened in two precise holes. Knots of polymer and metal, distorted from an intense heat at close range. Any soldier could recognize the aftermath of a plasma blast.

Politely, Sagan dipped his head down to indicate that he understood what Sam was referring to. "Creator Roahn'Shepard was kind enough to relay a secondhand account she received from her maternal progenitor, Creator Tali'Shepard. She indicated that the armor had sustained categorical damage at these locations," one of Sagan's fingers scratched at the areas in turn, "approximately 2.3 Rannochian solar years before I would come into the family's care. Whatever destruction had been accumulated to my platform at that time had been enough to disable my systems. My internal memory, left with no power, was wiped as a result. There is no way for me to recover those records anymore."

"Hmm," the burly man considered as he rubbed a hand through his thick beard. His eyes, glinting stones, shone with a distant luster that betrayed his deep concentration. "A shame. Would've liked to have known what you had been up to before that."

"As would I," Sagan affirmed.

"Kind of weird to hear a geth wish for something like that."

Now the geth turned his head, affixing Sam with an ever-present and baleful stare. "Is seeking additional context towards one's origins not considered a natural inclination?"

"Depends. Is that really you asking that, or are you _programmed_ to ask us that?"

"Does such a difference matter?"

"It very well could," Sam sighed as he leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak as he tilted his head up to the skylight so that he could watch the indigo curtain of stars moving beyond relativistic speeds through it. "In the end we're talking about free will. One of those choices means that you are acting of your own volition… and the other implies you don't."

The geth stilled and Roahn pressed herself further against the wall to hide herself from the two. Sagan appeared quite pensive as he considered the statement. It almost seemed like he had been puzzled by this line of questioning and had not managed to come up with an answer that satisfy either Sam or him. Odd, considering that a geth should not need to think of an answer. A synthetic would be able to offer their opinion freely.

_Opinion_. Now Roahn was thinking of Sagan as an organic. How simply her mind could be persuaded after witnessing a geth demonstrate just the barest ability of self-recognition, discovering its own permanence. Yet, that did not distress her in the slightest. After what she had heard about the geth from her parents, was this trend in Sagan's awareness all that intimidating? Or unexpected? Not at all. The geth—Sagan—was merely choosing to think for himself, to adapt to his environment in the way an organic would.

"Repossessing the gaps in my memory might have helped in providing additional context," Sagan said almost wistfully. "About me. About the galaxy. Perhaps there were events that I might have witnessed that I would perform differently in the presence of new data. Such understanding would make me more… effective. I would not be able to repeat any mistakes that may have been made previously. I have been given a new start but without a frame of reference to my environment."

"You fear that already you might be wasting this new lease on life?"

"For an organic, a second chance implies that there will be an opportunity to remedy errors that had been made during the first iteration. If I am unable to comprehend that iteration, I lack sufficient data to reach an optimal conclusion."

"You have a point, there," Sam mused as he swung his chair to face forward, gazing steadfastly towards the sloped dashboard of the ship, seemingly peering past the jumble and bustle of holographic hieroglyphics. "If only being able to _tell_ you what you've missed out on would be sufficient…"

"It would not," the geth said rather placidly, not recognizing that Sam had mostly been talking to himself at that point. "Cognition for a geth requires more than verbal recounts. Additional content that leads towards the recognition of context would meet those requisite circumstances."

Sam's mouth formed a straight line. He rested his head upon his hand, leaning to the side while in his chair. The glow of the instrument panel twisted his face and turned it into many. Light danced in his eyes as an intangible sigh, filmy and vapor, escaped him.

"If only," he murmured again. "If only."

Roahn softly turned on the balls of her heels, her prosthetic fingers making the barest of brays as they scoured along the side of the bulkhead, having decided that her presence here was unnecessary. An approaching present spilt across her peripheral vision. She looked up to see Korridon striding her way, a purposeful determination in his eyes. Apparently she was his target—not any of the individuals in the cockpit.

The quarian met him halfway so that their voices would not carry up towards the tip of the ship. "Can I talk to you in private, Roahn?" he asked.

She turned her head about back the way she came. Silently, Roahn jerked a thumb towards the port airlock door—the closest room where they could be certain of being unobserved. They slid into the tiny confines of the room, with Korridon letting out an involuntary shiver—the airlock lacked any heating vents and reeked of the burning plastic scent that was the smell of deep space.

The turian gave a nervous chuckle. "I hope you're not planning on spacing me."

Confused but simultaneously mirthful, Roahn tilted her head as she crossed her arms over her chest. "If I really wanted to do that, I wouldn't be in this room with you. Also… _why_ would I want to do that?"

"I just thought that it was… you know, it was funnier in… in my…-never mind," the turian stumbled before hanging his head in frustration.

Arms still crossed, Roahn was still for the longest time before she felt something loosen in her chest. Her breath was then emitted in the form of a laugh. The knot continued to loosen. She needed that moment more than she had thought, it seemed.

"You have many talents, Korr, but telling jokes is not one of them," Roahn continued to grin, her filtered breath now starting to emit from her vocabulator in a bare and wistful cloud. The sheepish turian continued to have his head lowered, his train of thought most likely derailed. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

The gas-tubes of the light fixtures were throwing down frozen beams upon the two. Korridon's facepaint looked positively radiant right now, as if it was emitting its own heat. The turian's eyes darted scathingly within their sockets as the cold crept upon the precious fluids comprising his organs. His breath exhaled in twin geysers from the sides of his mouth, curling around his mandibles as he fought the urge to shiver.

"I need… I need to speak frankly to someone. Spirits knows I can't do it in front of the captain."

"Then you can speak to me. If you have anything to say, I want to listen."

Korridon's eyelids lowered halfway—his version of a tired and world-weary grin. "You've gone out of your way to make me feel at home on this ship, Roahn. I just hope I'm not overstepping by wanting to speak in this manner."

Roahn shook her head, her face appearing like it was encased in ice behind her blue visor. "Not at all. I'd _prefer_ it if you spoke frankly to me."

Relieved, Korridon rubbed at his arms before proceeding. "Thank you… Roahn. I've been thinking since the meeting and… well, I don't know how to start this. It's just… this mission. Going to Triton. Something doesn't sit right with me about it."

"You didn't bring this up when the team was assembled. How come?"

"Honestly," the turian sighed, as though he was ashamed to have opened this can of worms, "I didn't know if what I thought warranted addressing."

"Korr," Roahn sighed as she stepped forward. Her prosthesis reached out and gently—ever so gently—touched the man's arm. A tremble jittered through the turian. Her fingers must have been ice cold. He looked down uncomfortably at the threshold between where her arm both ended and began, simultaneously transfixed and fearful.

Roahn's eyes were embers as they never left Korridon's face. "If you have any misgivings during a briefing, you need to bring them up!"

"I just…" the turian stammered, "…I thought that I would be holding it all up for everyone!"

"What do you mean?" Roahn squinted.

"I mean," Korridon anxiously rubbed at a spot on his forehead, "everyone at the briefing today seemed particularly… _fervent_ about heading over to Triton and taking possession of this artifact. At no point did anyone raise any objections! I thought that we'd all be more cautious after the last few missions because we've been hampered by bad intel before, but it seems like that has all been cast aside because of our desperation to gain an advantage on this Aleph person however possible."

Roahn found herself nodding along with Korridon, though her fingers soon detached themselves from his arm. She mentally chastised herself for breaking such personal boundaries, having to tell herself that she needed to see these things from an impersonal lens and not let her sympathetic side infiltrate her decisions.

"I believe humans have a saying for that sort of thing," Roahn said. "You're talking about being the 'devil's advocate' for that meeting. Some people just happen to feel better if there's someone at the table who makes a case for the opposing point of view. Was it the unanimity that made you nervous?"

Korridon thought for a moment before shaking his head. "I just wish I had your confidence. Can you at least say, with complete certainty, that this is the best course of action we can take?"

"I will… if you can tell me there's another way to stop Aleph. If Triton doesn't lead us to the answer… what will?"

The turian's inability to respond gave it all away from Roahn, who knew that Korridon did not have an answer that would appease her. And even if he did, would she still heed his words?

The turian, though taller, seemed to shrink before her eyes, seemingly regretting bringing up this dialogue with her if he figured that he would fail to gain any ground through it. Discourse did not come easily to him, Roahn realized, and being here right now was probably one of the most difficult things he had performed in recent memory. There were some people who were born for the art of debate and some who were not. Korridon's folly was that he hoped that his very presence would act as the catalyst for Roahn to see his point of view, words be damned.

Roahn stared blankly at the man for a little while longer, waiting to see if he had any more to add. When that opportunity came and went, she decided that this conversation had been brought to an uncomfortable close. She reached out—with her right hand this time—and, fighting every urge her body was hollering at her not to do it—slotted her grip into the turian's limp hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Korridon stared up hopefully, but found only a somber reflection through the frosted glass of Roahn's mask.

"It's decided, Korr," Roahn murmured. "There is nothing that I can think of that would make me want to turn back."

Korridon blinked before he slowly rotated his head a few degrees. "If there _was_ something that would hold you back," he said, "would you even tell me?"

Roahn gave him a pitiful smile, though the turian could not see it. She released her grip on his hand and activated the airlock door, allowing a wall of warm air to thaw their ice-gnawed bones. "This is what's _right_, Korr," she breathily defended.

The turian considered that before he shook his head and sidled past Roahn delicately, being the one to leave first.

"No, Roahn. You just _hope_ it's right."

* * *

By the time her lunch hour rolled around, Roahn had found that she had spent the majority of her time up to that point in quite the languid state. She had been turning Korridon's words over and over in her head for several hours since they had parted, trying to understand why she had been so struck by them.

_You just hope it's right._

Damn straight she hoped that it was right! Removing one of Aleph's pieces from the board would give her so much satisfaction, especially when she tried to imagine that man's reaction upon finding out that she had gotten to another artifact before he did. If Aleph could not use it, then that was mission accomplished, was it not?

There was a tiny part of her that disagreed. It was not necessarily her own devil's advocate, but it was a burgeoning and malignant force that had been steadily gaining in mass and influence for a while now. An impulse drawing her to desires most primal and circumspect to her deepest mindset. It was threatening to override the face she put out in public, the words that had been uttered minutes, days, years ago.

It whispered in her ear, telling her that the turian may very well be _right_.

Helpless, Roahn did not notice the minutes of her break slipping by as she stood in the bathroom of her cabin, leaning heavily upon the sink while she stared at her own lightbound eyes, trying desperately to imagine the framework of her own face reflected back at her. But it was no use. All she could see was a mask. A protective, overbearing, coddling, hateful thing. Her face drew closer and closer to the mirror. Still her eyes could not plunge through the murky shadows. She struggled with unleashing a growl of despair. How difficult could it be to imagine her own face?! Could it be that she had simply forgot her own skin? She did not know, she had never seen her face in person ever. Always a reflection, whether on a polished surface or from the reaction of another looking upon her in her most private moments.

She was wrestling with the urge to tear off her _sehni_ and forcibly cast aside the visor that hung over her face like a parasite. The room was currently clean—the risk of getting sick was low.

A faint knock on the door dispelled that notion.

"Come in," she rasped, pushing herself away from the mirror.

Skye poked her head in before the rest of her body followed suit. Roahn had walked back into the bedroom by this time and had sank into her office chair. Skye looked around for a place to sit once she realized that there was no way she could sit directly next to the quarian—she took the edge of the bed instead.

"You look distracted," the human said, her face momentarily drooping.

Roahn heavily leaned her head upon her hand as she gazed distantly into the abyss. "Had a talk with Korridon earlier today. Just thinking about something he said."

"What'd he say? Was he being a spoilsport?"

"Merely being a realist," Roahn deflected, her tone low and grim. Her hands then rested on her knees as she leaned back in her chair. Her eyes found Skye's and she paused a beat before proceeding. "You're all in for going to Triton, I take it?"

The carmine-haired woman's mouth immediately curled in a smirk, as if the question was completely unnecessary. "One hundred and ten percent. You know me, Roahn. I'll be behind whatever decision you make. To hurt Aleph however possible."

_Because he took your arm_, she was practically short of saying, evident by how Skye's eyes were constantly floating over to Roahn's prosthesis. Roahn had to bite her lip to keep her from loudly sighing. There were times when she wished that she could simply remove her prosthetic limb if it was going to be such a distraction, but then her stump would serve as merely another distraction borne of her own flailing attempts to hide her true self. Crude alterations of her shape to avoid penetrating stares of those she cared about. As if she was scared they would find a defiled core underneath the metal, underneath the rigid cartilage of her suit, underneath the thick glass that held her breaths.

As if they had the slightest possibility of finding what they were seeking and would only be disappointed in what they unearthed.

Carefully, the quarian steeped her hands, making sure to blink slowly, limiting the glow from her visor. "I'm… glad you're being so supportive," was all she could say, frustrated at her own ability to mask her unease.

Oddly, Skye did not seem to notice this moment of self-doubt. "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't support you?"

There were a lot of things that Roahn could have said to the woman as a rebuttal. _I need a soldier first, a friend second. I don't want you blindly following my orders. I want you to think for yourself. You're seeing things too bluntly because you're infatuated with me._

"…Thanks," she croaked out instead, ultimately damning herself to live with her timidness.

Skye completely missed the cues in Roahn's body language and beamed, further driving the quarian deeper into the doldrums.

At some point, Roahn felt that she was going to have to live with this part of Skye's mindset instead of acting like she could possibly change it. Vacuuming the forest floor would be a simpler challenge to overcome. It did not matter if Roahn technically agreed with the sentiment that Skye was portraying—the very fact that the human was deliberately restricting herself to any creative thought was a worrisome point as well as a new topic of consideration that was prime to cause her despair.

Ignorant to Roahn's plight, Skye edged further off the bed, trying to get her body as close to Roahn as possible. The quarian could plainly see that Skye's hands were twitching in anticipation, as though the human was itching to have them leap out and wrap around her body, cobra-quick. As a matter of fact, the way she was looking at Roahn was a prime giveaway that she was expecting something else to occur right about now. A pre-mission risqué rendezvous, perhaps? Roahn could have laughed in her face—knowing the sort of reaction she had just recovered from, a romantic tryst was the _last_ thing on her mind.

Obviously Skye had no way of telling just how Roahn felt right at this moment (_thank you, enviro-suit!_) and was beginning to take on an expectant look, almost as if she expected Roahn to be able to read her mind. And to a point, the quarian _did_ know what Skye wanted but she was in no mood for games. If the woman wanted something, she would have to bluntly state it out loud.

"It's only a couple more hours until we reach Triton," Skye said after clearing her throat. "I… didn't know if you felt like doing anything until then?"

_And there it is._

Roahn pretended to mull it over, managing to hide her simmering discouragement for Skye not being able to have her priorities in check. She would have thought that the human would have been satiated from having sex in the last day—to want more right now, at this time, just seemed ridiculous.

"I… think I'd prefer to be alone," Roahn then said. "At least for tonight."

Skye blinked and gave a start. Evidentially that was not the answer she was expecting to hear.

"Oh," was all she said, her mind spinning as she tried to process this. "O-…Okay. Are… are you sure? Because I can always—"

"Skye," Roahn leaned forward and placed her lustrous and heavy fingers on the woman's knee. Far away so as not to seem like she was giving the human any ideas. "I'm fine. I just want to be by myself."

"Well… if you change your mind…"

"That's probably not going to happen."

At some point Roahn wished that Skye would actually rise to the bait and offer a better defense. There was the strong inclination to actually have a good argument, like she was trying to get a rise out of the human.

Skye remained still for as long as Roahn kept her prosthetic fingers lightly resting upon her knee. Once the quarian had taken her hand away, it was as if a weight had lifted off of Skye's shoulders. She looked down at the floor, then up at Roahn, before twisting away as she was now somewhat embarrassed to even look at her. Silently, Skye got to her feet and slowly shuffled out of the room, keeping that deliberate pace like Roahn was suddenly going to be overcome by a change of heart and would call her back, thinking that they would meet with open arms in the middle of the room together before falling into bed. But that would just be a cheesy and unrealistic continuation to their day.

Skye's absence did not weigh as heavily on Roahn as she would have thought. On the contrary, the quarian felt somehow lighter.

Relegated to once again be in the company of her own thoughts, Roahn kicked her feet up onto the mattress as she reclined back in her chair, hands now folded over her stomach. The dwellings on the fragile structures of her professional and personal life wobbled dangerously, as if the foundations had been constructed out of mere toothpicks. She chewed her lip, not at all relishing the prospect of having these distractions bother her for the next couple of hours. What she needed was an alternative, something more worthwhile to occupy her racing mind.

Fortunately, she had just the thing.

Activating her omni-tool, Roahn brought up her video library, upon which showed that she was using several terabytes worth of high quality clips that she had collected over the years. She scrolled down to the videos that were timestamped a few years before she had been born. Created by someone with a different digital signature. Her eyes scanned the menagerie of preview images, her mask aglow by the orange grid that was enveloping her face. She made a gesture with her thumb, indicating a specific video. A dark box soon rose over her arm as the clip began to play.

There was a brief fuzz of static before the screen materialized into a discernable image. Percolated light thrown in through fog-soaked windows. Half-empty bottle of whisky on the kitchen counter. A tousled blanket thrown about on the lonely couch in the middle of the family room. And a shadow—through the beaded glass—that slowly flitted in and out of view just beyond.

The camera bobbed and weaved, indicating that it was held in a shaking hand. Roahn was a witness, a passenger, on this strange ride as the camera-holder pushed open the door, thick seals emitting a loud sucking noise as they parted. The splash of waves hurled through the speakers and there was a little sniffle from the person behind the lens as both the chill of the ocean and the heat of the sun beat at their face. Eye-searing yellow rays, fire shooting into water, momentarily blinded. An infinite refraction, glinting and distorting.

The view on the screen quickly turned and focused on the object that had previously been but a shadow behind the window. Only now that shadow had definition. Color. A person. Off in the distance, a far-away ship cut through the clouds with a bang, tearing holes in the morning cover. A brief spit of wind flung a mist of salty spray, causing light to dance across the screen.

Coming closer and closer, the screen approached the being, who now turned at the very sense that their solitude had come to an end. Tali'Shepard lidded a warm smile towards the camera, though she was still completely clad in her enviro-suit, purple mask and all. Even though quarians could discern emotions among their veiled brethren, it would be impossible for anyone to miss the fact that Tali most likely had a grin on her face, watching her husband approach. It was all in the lift of her chin, the direction her shoulders suddenly shifted—squarely towards Shepard—and the languid motion of her hands. Watching in her room, Roahn gave a gentle touch to the very _sehni_ she wore that simultaneously draped over her mother on the screen.

Her fingers then reached out and barely floated through the hologram, tracing Tali's outline, the only sort of caress she could hope to offer.

_My mother. My eidolon. I've become your very image, haven't I? If only you could see what your love helped create. If only I could know the full ferocity, the magnitude, of that love._

On the screen, Roahn watched as Tali's hands drifted lower, to her belly. Though the woman was suited, Roahn could observe a subtle bulge right at her mother's abdomen. The way Tali was giving that area gentle touches could only convey a simple explanation, a reaction borne upon instinct that transcended species in a chemical but also an indeterminate swell of emotion.

"_Filming?_" Tali laughed as the view steadily approached her on the balcony of that house. Her house. "_Special occasion?_"

"_I had some inspiration_," her father's voice, himself unseen, floated through the speakers. "_I saw you through the window. Looked… painterly. Guess I just wanted to keep the moment_."

"_For our daughter?_" Tali now hummed as she looked down at her rounded stomach, her hands encasing the swell there like a force field. "_She's a restless one. Woke me up early today_."

"_Can… can I…?_" Shepard asked. Tali affirmed in a simple nod, eyes widened like she had not expected to even grant him permission in the first place. A five-fingered hand then reached out, its owner still hidden past the lens of the camera, and gently placed itself upon Tali's stomach. Shepard's hand absorbed the heat his wife's enviro-suit had accumulated from being warmed by the morning sun. There were also the faintest of vibrations past that outer layer. Irregular. Something stirring.

"_Amazing_," Shepard murmured as he ostensibly felt a kick.

"_She's already showing your stubbornness_."

"_But she'll have your brains_."

"_Hmm_," Tali sighed as she resumed placing her hands over her pregnant belly. The camera caught the quarian looking out to see, just in time to see a faint breeze catch the edges of her _sehni_, making her appear light and ethereal, as if the next gust could blow her away. "_She'll have everything, John. More than she could ever ask for. Her life will be hers to abide by. She'll never carry our mistakes_."

Shepard was silent as he watched his wife. His hand reached out again for Tali to take. The quarian looked to him first before looking down, taking his hand rather greedily.

"_Have you thought of a name?_" Shepard asked.

Light-soaked droplets sprayed across Tali's mask, temporarily misting it. She wiped the surface clear with her free hand. "_I think so. Though I wonder if you've given it some thought too._"

The screen shook in time with Shepard's head. "_Our daughter is a quarian, Tali. She needs a quarian name._"

Tali raised her chin in mock defiance. "_Hmph! She doesn't 'need' for her name to follow convention_."

"_And I'm not asking for her name to follow convention. My only stipulation… is that her name be quarian-derived. Also, I'm biased in that I think that Khelish names sound prettier_."

"_Good to know_," Tali resumed patting her stomach. She wistfully looked down the jagged coast, spotting the faint glimmers of artificial lights dotting the landscape several miles away. "_A family in town just had a girl,_" she mentioned, almost apropos of nothing. "_They named her Penya_."

"_A nice name_," Shepard admitted, "_but I'd rather not take a name from someone else just because it sounds good._"

"_I agree. And also Penya is derived from the Khelish word pehnaa, which means 'unyielding.'"_

"_Someone named a child 'Unyielding?'" _Shepard asked, voice betraying his surprise_._

"_No, no," _Tali shook her head_. "They based the name around one of our most famous stories. There was a ship named the Pehnaa many hundreds of years ago. Defended Rannoch against pirate attacks from our lost colonies. Went up against monumental odds and made it back home safely. Sometimes, quarian children are named after these heroic ships, in order to never let those names be forgotten in our memory._"

Shepard shrugged. "_A name is a name to me, Tali. Perhaps a long while back human names actually had an underlying meaning, but now they're just a series of syllables tied together to create an association through sound. Our daughter should have a name that's her own, that's not a reminder of our past."_

Leaning on the rail of the balcony, Tali looked spectacularly radiant as the sun finally burned a hole through the low-lying milky layer of clouds, setting the purple fabric of her suit alight with vivid hues and glinting off of her metallic trappings. Her hands, still upon her stomach, lingered there for long moments before she finally took her husband's hand again and placed it back upon the spot where their unborn daughter just kicked out in her delirious sleep.

"_Roahn_," Tali said. "_I like the name Roahn_."

Now the camera shifted, removed from its initial axis. Set to remote, the device languidly floated from its holder, a holographic ball of electrons sitting in midair, taking in the scene in its entirety.

Shepard grew closer to Tali, with the waves foaming angrily upon the cliffs below him. As Roahn watched the screen, she unconsciously traced the chin lines of her helmet as she watched her father. He had been clean-shaven back then and his hair was still within military regulations. He also still had both eyes. Younger, objectively still handsome—despite being dressed in loose sleepwear: shorts and a ruffled shirt—though there was a sadness buried deep within him, even after all this time. Weary of the galaxy, of his duty. Not having yet succumbed to his relief that his deepest wishes were transpiring before his very eyes.

The edificial Shepard took up a rigid posture, a dignified glimmer inhabiting the corner of his eyes. He looked up and caught the majestic gleam that warped through Tali's visor—a stray ray of sun hit the side of her mask, managing to illuminate the barest part of her face, revealing a blink-and-you'll-miss-it flash of young features, smooth skin, and wondrous eyes.

"_Roahn_," Shepard repeated, the name coming easily to him. "_Roahn. Where… where did you hear that name?_"

Still smiling, Tali shrugged. "_It's just a name, John. I've always liked that name_."

Shepard's mouth tugged taut in a fierce grin. He flattened his hand further upon his pregnant wife's belly, absorbing feeble kick after feeble kick delivered to his palm. Wind, water, and heat swirled around them, a devilish cyclone that threatened to whisk them away had their infatuation not kept them anchored where they were.

"_Not just a name_," Shepard breathed as his other hand rested upon the side of Tali's helmet, the quarian leaning into his touch. "_It's her name_."

As the two hugged, melting into their perfect embrace, the video file stuttered and stopped, having reached the limit of its playback. Roahn's face was still hovering over the screen, eyes wide, half-expecting it to keep playing even though she knew it was a futile hope.

Her fingers were still trembling over the razor-thin display. They maneuvered close so they could touch the visages of her parents, mournful that she had to let the memory of silicon serve as her reference instead of her own mind. Her own thoughts, her recollections, they were not enough. Not nearly enough to form the complete picture she had of her own mother, an image slowly fading inside of her head year after year.

"I can still have everything," she used the barest of her breath to utter to the frozen faces of her parents. "I still have time, mom."

* * *

_The Citadel__  
Governmental Quarters_

"_Raise arms parallel to ground. Hold position for four seconds._"

Cirae blinked water out of her eyes before she complied with the order. She extended her fingertips and asserted her dominant position as she stood within the shower, waiting for the jets to strike her body.

The overhead lights were positioned in an "X" formation, throwing down a savage cross of brilliant white incandescence that was amplified by the shower's white tile. Four plastic columns of water jets, one at each corner of the shower, moved up and down on soft hydraulics as passive scanners continually monitored Cirae's position within their ranges. Cirae stood in the middle, surrounded by the columns of spray while the water gurgled down the ringed drain underneath her bare feet.

The four snow-white pillars lowered themselves down a few inches, giving the shower a sort of assembly-line appearance, and unleashed quick mists of piping-hot water. Cirae closed her eyes as her scaly skin became pinpricked with fat and pregnant beads of liquid that dripped off of her slender form. The water was light as it flew through the air in a fine mist. Cirae waved a blue-scaled hand directly into the spray, feeling the caress of the water against her palm while she watched it all run through her fingers to spatter against her leg and finally drain through her toes. Despite not having the sort of comparable skin to humans, which would usually necessitate constant liquid immersion, asari indeed took showers on a regular basis. Stray bits of material matter in the air had the tendency to collect on their skin after long days, not to mention that their outer layer tended to get rather oily between long periods without hydration. Besides, even if showering did not bring the asari any hygienic benefit, Cirae would still take them because, damn it, they just felt too good.

"_Face column A_," the shower's VI spoke evenly to her. "_Close eyes, please_."

The asari complied and a little nozzle eased its way from one of the faucet columns, making its way towards her face. She closed her eyes mere seconds before she felt a blast of heavy-feeling and warm water strike her upon the forehead. Cirae gave a shiver that was sent surging from her back all the way to her toes. _Fuck, that's nice_.

"_Tilt head downwards, please_," the VI then ordered.

The nozzle oriented itself so that it could effectively cleanse the areas between Cirae's cartilage flaps on the top of her head. The process was more ticklish than it was intrusive—she was somewhat left saddened when it was over.

The water then died down to a pathetic trickle on all four columns, leaving the burping of water from the drains as the last lingering sounds to permeate the shower. A soft chime from the shower's mechanism accompanied the decrease in water activity.

"_99.7% contaminants eliminated from surface areas_," the VI announced. "_You are now free to extricate yourself._"

"Like I needed your permission," Cirae muttered to the air, but she palmed the glass door anyway and it opened, allowing her to leave.

The asari's towel hung on the rack close by to the shower door. After stepping on the thick mat with bristles so long they rose up past her feet, Cirae retrieved the towel and patted her head dry before she wrapped it around her body, covering herself from her chest down to mid-thigh.

She walked over to the granite countertop, where the bowl-shaped sinks had a faint sheen of condensation from the mist in the room. The mirror was also fogged up—Cirae used a rag to wipe a slash clear, allowing the melted color of her eyes to burn their way through the nebulous haze, finding herself past the myopia. Her hands went to one of the drawers to retrieve some personal items, as was her routine before she went off to bed for the evening. Cirae was especially keen on getting a good night's rest—work was resuming early in the morning tomorrow and she knew she had to show up to that session. She had missed enough Assembly meetings already and becoming only more truant would arouse suspicion on her end. Not to mention it would deeply displease her constituents by being absent so much.

Cirae was about to apply a dollop of moisturizing cream to her hand when her eyes flicked over to the nearby bathroom security panel, where a red light had just begun to softly blink. Her brow furrowed in confusion. Something had set her security system off. False alarm, perhaps? She leaned over to check for specifics.

No further details of the warning were displayed on the mounted screen, which was a plate of thick black glass upon which a tableau of dashboards regarding her apartment were emblazoned. Just a fault in the system had registered for a brief moment, which explained the silent alert. Cirae did not trust that there was a simple explanation for this momentary lapse in her security system. She had only just begun to believe in the total lack of coincidences, especially in her life.

"Okay…" she murmured as she turned to face the bathroom door, a bolt of anxiety beginning to run through her. She approached the exit and reached up to dim the lights down. Quietly, she palmed the panel to the door, causing it to slide open silently. Making sure to roll her footsteps, she slipped out of the bathroom and into the adjacent hall, silent as a whisper.

Her apartment was pitch black inside. Cirae blinked, trying to make her eyes adjust to the lack of illumination. A tingle jolted through her, a sense that she was somehow not alone.

Cirae could have smirked at the very thought that someone had broken into her place to do her harm, but that inclination did not even last a second in her mind. After all, she had seen that there was no bottom to which the most corrupt individual would dig down to in an effort to preserve what they envisioned to be the status quo. It would be irresponsible not to consider the worst, though Cirae hoped she was being paranoid.

Despite her doubts, Cirae still stealthily padded her way through the house. The hall was shaped in a right angle—one path led to her bedroom, the other to her living room which was the closest route to her foyer. She took the latter path, only after peeking around the corner to make sure that no one was hiding just around it, about to spring upon her with a nasty intention. She tried to stop her mind from going to those dark places but… she _was_ sneaking her way through her unlit apartment, wrapped in only a towel. It seemed that bad implications were quite obvious.

Her feet were silent on the carpet as Cirae crouch-walked into the living room. Through her poster windows, she could see Earth in the throes of eclipsing the sun behind it. A stunning and powerful glow was attempting to burst from behind the planet, radiant energy creeping across the horizon, yet the eternal night lingered as the station, its traffic, and the stars melded together in a cosmic wallpaper of fragile motes.

Warm moonlight snaked over Cirae's skin. Pieces of her minimalistic turian furniture glimmered dully in the low light. She ducked behind the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen, listening for anything out of the ordinary. A creak of the floor. A brush on the wall.

She craned her head and listened hard. Only silence met her.

Breath snaking from her nose, Cirae tiptoed into the kitchen, her feet making agonizing peeling noises as they met cold tile. She headed for the cabinet where she usually kept one of her pistols. Being former military, she had guns for all occasions and each one had their own little hiding nook in her apartment. But upon opening it, there was a blank spot where she could have sworn she set it last.

No gun. Shit!

Panic was rising in her throat, accompanied by a burning sensation of bile. She fought the urge to tear the kitchen apart to look for her gun—the resulting noises would be too obvious. Yanking her head back and forth in a hopeless search, Cirae's thoughts turned to escape. The door to the complex was less than a few meters from her. She could make a dash for it!

As she rose to head outside, still not certain if she was acting crazy or not, a flicker from the coffee table, lamentably far away, drew her attention. An object situated between a misshapen glass vase and nudging a woven media tile basket upon a transparent glass surface. It was her pistol, sitting out in the open. Unbelievable, she had completely forgotten that she had been cleaning it yesterday and had left it there! Stupid!

Cirae could curse her ineptitude later. There was a situation brewing and being armed would certainly give her a better state of mind.

She was about to make a quick dash to retrieve her weapon when, before her eyes, a dark shape, a shadow against a shadow, moved in front of the window. A plodding figure, humanoid, but slightly bulky from wearing a complete set of combat armor. Even in these dim conditions, Cirae could spy the submachine gun the assassin was holding in a tight grip as it swept back and forth, a thin laser sight gently wisping over the room and all its features.

Cirae kept quiet and huddled herself closer to the wall, bunkering down as best as she could. She dared not breathe lest the assassin had amplified audio receptors in their helmet.

At this moment, Cirae recalled the words that Chimera's CEO had spoken to her just before they had finally parted: _"I wouldn't be surprised if the Council sent one of their Spectres to right the ship should a leak be sprung."_

Shit. Had she been found out? Had the Council finally sent someone her way to have her silenced?

In that moment, Cirae found herself lamenting the imperfections in her life that had all been conducted as a result of her own arrogance and petulance. Her mind flashed back to those moments that continually warred over dominance for the definition of her own self. Running off to play war all to spite her parents. Delivering pain upon the undeserving. The cold bite of the opioid needle in her arm. The hedonistic and drug-addled sessions of fornication, her mind reeking of tonic as she laid with her comrades, with strangers, with lovers, sometimes all at once.

The hope to be construed satisfactorily pushed those terrors aside. Mistakes of the past were all ghosts now. She was Cirae Idetha, representative to the Assembly. Her own life was still a sketch, the lines not yet filled in.

The cavalcade of mobile incandescence surged past the windows—skycars and trucks barreling through empty space—marking a slipshod outline of the matte-colored assassin. The figure clumsily brushed against chairs and a nightstand, jostling the delicate objects perched upon it. One particular tchotchke made a rather loud rattling sound as the armored intruder nudged it unintentionally, causing it to dangerously tip back and forth, the impacts of its porcelain stand making a racket upon the glass table where it stood.

The assassin's helmet dipped down involuntarily to check out the source of the sound. Their back was to the gun on the other table, which they had not noticed yet.

Heart in her throat, Cirae seized her chance.

Silent as a phantom, she rose from the dark corner where she had been crouched and sprang for the living room like a crazed feline. The assassin, hearing the tiniest whispers of noise, whirled to face the onrushing asari, the submachine gun still held firmly in their hands, but in their haste they had not yet aimed down the sights.

"_Rrrrraaagggh!_" Cirae roared as she leapt over a Milanese leather recliner, her fist abruptly coated in a glowing envelope of dark energy, her mind filled to the brim with an electric charge so thick the back of her teeth ached. She swung her arm as she landed, sending forth a powerful jab of biotic force that hurtled through the air towards the assassin.

The dark trooper did not try to dive out of the way of the onrushing slash. They had gotten their weapon up, aimed precisely at Cirae for a precious second, but the arc of biotic force met them before they could take their first shot. Cirae's attack caught the assassin on the arm, easily knocking it upward with a violent thrust—the intruder instinctively clenched down on the trigger and the barrel of the submachine gun erupted in a chattering _DDRT!-DDRT!-DDRT!_ of fire and sound, tearing the air apart while its strobing bursts drew out animalistic and feral shapes in the shadows. Bullets tore from the submachine gun and sprayed the ceiling, creating a clatter of sparks and a hail of particulate matter to rain down.

The assassin backpedaled just as Cirae lined up another biotic blow in a fearsome chop. The razor-thin arc of force clipped the intruder's arm, tearing the weapon from their grip. The submachine gun hit the carpeted floor and slid underneath a chair.

Cirae's towel dropped from her body, but she was well beyond caring at this point. She lashed out a kick, remembering her military training, and caught the assassin square in the chest. The armored foe toppled backwards directly onto the glass table where Cirae's pistol had still been lying. The glass surface shattered into a million tiny grains and the pistol disappeared underneath the clear granular snowfall.

Distorted groans uttered from the assassin's vocabulator as he tried to rise, a knife now in hand. Cirae got to him first and stomped on his arm with a bare heel. Hard. He made a sharp yelp as his hand reflexively opened up, letting the knife slip from his grip.

"Who sent you?!" Cirae barked, darkness obscuring her stark-naked form. "_Who sent y-?!_"

Undeterred, the assassin raised a hand and splayed out his fingers. A wall of azure energy burst from his palm, catching the slender asari full-on and launching her damn near the entire way across the room. Cirae's thoughts were completely jumbled as she tumbled through the air. _They sent a biotic after me_, she was able to comprehend. She landed heavily on her side, bruising her hip. Gnashing her teeth, her fingers clawed at the carpet as she struggled to stand back up, the pulsating lights from outside the window only fleetingly showing the full extent of her scaled body in microbursts.

The assassin had also risen to his feet too, his knife back in hand. His flipped the blade so that his gauntleted palm was now holding it blade-first. Cirae's eyes rose just in time to see the armored foe cock his arm back and hurtle the knife in her direction.

The oncoming projectile loomed in Cirae's eyes. Time seemed to dilute for her—she could pick out all the miniscule details that made up the blade that was coming straight for her face. Stainless steel. Notched markings. Woven grip.

_Catch it._

Operating on instinct, Cirae cried out as she quickly lifted her hands, a volley of biotic pyrotechnics shooting from her fingertips. The spinning knife suddenly stopped in mid-air, remaining floating mere inches from the asari's body. A bubble of lavender light had wrapped itself around the projectile—Cirae had thrown up a gravity-nullifying barrier in less than a second! At such a small target! Her instructors would have been pleased.

With a growl, Cirae lunged forward, swiped her arm and plucked the knife from where it hung in the air. She rushed the assassin, who by now had realized that they had bitten off more than they could chew with their target. Whatever they had been expecting when they had broken into this apartment tonight, confronting a brazen naked asari was certainly not part what they had on their itinerary.

Using her ruthless strength to her advantage, Cirae bent her arm and hurled the knife back towards its owner, giving it a little biotic push to speed it along its journey for good measure. Her opponent was not as skilled as she was, or as quick to react—the knife sailed straight and true before impacting heavily into an unarmored part of their shoulder. The knife sank halfway into flesh, causing the assassin to yowl in pain. A dark spurt of blood arced before the poster windows, colorless in the gloomy dusk.

The assassin flinched and that was all the time the asari needed.

Cirae tucked her legs before she pushed off the ground with a biotic shove, sending her into a flip right over the assassin's head while her palms trailed azure sparks. Weightless and graceful, she cut through the air like a raptor in a death-like arc. Right as she reached the terminus of her flip, she reached out past her head and managed to secure her grip around the lip of her attacker's helmet. She gave a firm yank as her arc sent her landing past the assassin—the helmet came off with her pull. As soon as Cirae's feet touched carpet, she gave a violent pivot. The dark hid her attacker's features. All she could glimpse was a hairless ridge and a familiar curl of ossein-like material. Nothing immediately registered with her, because Cirae had dropped to a crouch while simultaneously summoning up her reserves of biotic energy from every molecule in her body tissues, before she unleashed it all in a pummeling wall of force, directed at the assassin's back.

The attacker never had time to even turn around. Cirae's barrage caught them completely unguarded. Their feet lifted from the ground, the force of the biotic push swatting them away as easily as brushing off an insect. Wordless, they were propelled at a violent velocity, like a slug being fired from the barrel of a gun, barely able to comprehend the shining and reflective surface of the window that quickly loomed into view, the very one that they were about to impact.

The assassin's skull met hard glass in a sickening crunch.

Cirae winced as she saw the assassin smash face-first into the window before going limp and falling straight down. Angry cracks splintered from the epicenter of the hit, but the window still held. There was a tangled and crushed spider's web of fissures about a meter from the ground, where the assassin's forehead had met the glass, along with an opaque and ebon collection of liquid streaks that lazily dribbled downward.

The assassin crumpled to the ground just below, feebly twitching. Cirae raced over, still sans clothing—using the stygian obscurations in the low light to hide her body features—and rolled the body over.

Upon looking at the pulpy mess of her foe's face, she reeled back in shock. Cirae had had her suspicions that she had been sparring against an asari, as demonstrated by their usage of biotics, but what shook her to her very core was that, despite the terrible light, was that the face instantly registered upon her.

"Veyre?" she whispered in horror.

It should not have been, but it was.

Her own damned bodyguard.

Blood ran thickly from Veyre's mouth as she struggled to meet Cirae's eye. Her right orbital socket was completely smashed in—her right eye was a black gelatinous pit, having been crushed into a paste—web-like viscera dangled past her ruined eyelid like a tattered veil. Shattered teeth tumbled past the woman's lips. Her forehead was bleeding freely and looked rather misshapen. She had definitely done a number on her head when she had hit the window.

The asari was already in spasmic throes as blood continued to bubble from her throat. _Brain hemorrhage_, Cirae thought. Veyre had sustained severe damage to her frontal lobe from that hit. More than likely she had lost a few of her basic senses already. The convulsions were getting more erratic—her remaining pupil was fully dilated.

It was clear that she was going to die.

Incredibly, Veyre's head _turned_ as she lay upon the ground, her lone eye managing to focus on Cirae. She cracked a smile, showing an array of broken teeth.

"_Ma…am…_" the words slurred out like she had been doped. "_My… a… logies. –ey… -ade ee… -oo it_."

"Oh Veyre," Cirae sighed as she knelt down, careful to perform one last check of her former bodyguard for weapons in case this was an elaborate bluff. "You… you're saying '_they'_ made you do it? They… who are _'they'_?"

Veyre was still maniacally smiling as she now tilted her head towards the ceiling. _"—oo… really… -issed… -er off… ma'am. P—P—Paid m—me… -ortune_."

"I pissed someone off? I don't… who could I have pissed off that would want me…"

Cirae's jaw slackened as she took in the full breadth of what she was saying. The evidence before her, clear as day. The frothing assassin right underneath her, her words nudging her over the cliff towards the inevitable conclusion. The one catalyst that had prompted this behavior in the first place.

"_Irissa_," Cirae snarled.

Veyre squealed a singular laugh, the noise approximately the combination of a bat's howl and a primordial bird's cry. "_Ir—iss—a_," she gasped triumphantly. "_Ir—iss—a. Ir—iss…_"

A final geyser of crimson frothed from the assassin's mouth. Her lingering eye bulged in its shattered socket before a final spasm took her in a rattling struggle. Wet fluids, dark as wine, splattered Veyre's face as she thrashed this way and that before a final lurch in her body overcame her and everything in her relaxed.

An astonished Cirae was speechless as she was suddenly left alone in the room with a corpse.

Numbly, she fell backwards and made a mad scramble to get away from the body. With shaking hands, she found her towel on the floor where she had dropped it and clumsily wrapped it around her body again before she firmly pressed her back against the wall, desperate to have some modicum of stability right now, seeing as everything else in her life was letting her down.

She had underestimated the desperation of her opponent. Subterfuge and politicking she could deal with, but now her own faction leader had escalated the stakes. Bought out her own bodyguard to murder her right in her own apartment! Cirae had never known Veyre prior to being assigned her services by the Council, but she had figured that a sanctioned bodyguard was as close to incorruptible than anyone else in this sorry galaxy. One more spoke of trust that had been eroded away, it seemed.

"Fuck," Cirae breathed, still needing to catch her breath. A stray thought ruined her progress on that front—she clutched her chest and sat bolt upright. "Avi!" she exclaimed right before she scrambled to send him a call. If she had been monitored this whole time, no doubt she had unknowingly dragged Avi into this.

_Oh, Avi. Not you. I'm sorry, I should never have gotten you involved._

Her omni-tool elicited a pleasant beep—a signal that her call was reaching a receiver. But no one was answering. Another beep passed. Then another. And another.

"Pick up, you asshole!" Cirae raged, forgetting herself. She disconnected the call before trying again in her frustration.

By the second beep, she was about to scream into her own tool when, at the very edge of her auditory range, a little click murmured its way through her omni-tool. The beeps stopped.

"Avi?" she squeaked out, her heartbeat practically throbbing throughout her entire chest. "Avi?"

"_Ah, good_," a voice that was decidedly not Avi's answered. "_You survived, Representative. That's one less thing I have to worry about._"

Cirae stood up in astonishment, still clutching her towel to her chest. "What in the… _Miranda?!_"

"_Yes, I would probably be surprised too, if I were in your position_," the woman on the other end mildly commented.

"How did…? Who told…?" Cirae's brain was certainly not firing on all cylinders right about now. "Where's Avi?!"

"_I'm here, Cirae!_" a distant voice on the other line called out. "_I'm fine!_"

"Wait… so Miranda's with you? How the hell is that possible?"

"_Please, Representative_," Miranda's voice came back on. "_You're not as subtle as you might have hoped. What, did you think you weren't being monitored? Had I not been keeping an eye on the friend that you brought up to speed, he probably would not be talking to you right about now. Someone sent a whole squad of armed enforcers to his building to ensure his silence. Only unfortunate that they happened to run into me instead._"

The asari's hands clawed into her scalp, unsure how to process the fact that she had a guardian angel looking out for her the whole time.

"Yeah," Cirae returned to her chair, thoughts abuzz as she tried to process this turn of events entirely piecemeal, with little in the way of returns to show for it. "Goddess. They sent someone after me too. Tried to catch me while I was distracted."

"_Sounds like it was all taken care of, from what you've been saying_."

The asari scratched heavily at her head in agony. "For the most part."

"_Hey, Cirae!_" Avi called through the link. "_You didn't tell me that you had been working with Miranda Lawson!_"

"_No autographs, writer_," Cirae heard Miranda snap back at him, but was still too shook up to even laugh at the whole scenario.

Cirae yawed her jaw, trying not to stare at the body over by the cracked window (which was most likely bleeding into the carpet right about now). Silhouetted through the blinded barrier, shadowed slats raised bars across Cirae's face, constantly shifting from the lights of the passing vehicles.

"You knew this would happen," she said morosely. When Miranda did not answer right away, she continued. "You knew that what I was doing was eventually going to attract attention."

"_Yes, I did_," Miranda said.

"You let it happen anyway. Why?"

"_Cirae, I already told you why,_" Miranda sounded confused. "_My position on the Assembly was even more nullified than yours because of my past affiliation with Cerberus. I could not hope to tackle this problem from the inside by myself. I needed a fresh face, someone not yet swayed by the dirtiness of politics._"

"And so I was the bait while you could do your investigating from the shadows," Cirae's lip curled furiously.

"_I have not lied to you, Cirae. I don't intend to start anytime soon. My reputation doesn't need any more uplifting. But you… you're hungry. You want to be known as the one who helped spearhead a change, no matter how insignificant. I'm willing to step aside to let you finally have the spotlight_."

"This isn't what I thought I was getting into!" Cirae shouted.

"_Welcome to a new galaxy, Cirae_," Miranda proudly stated. "_The mutual armistice is finally over. All-out war will continue once more. It's inevitable at this point. But you have a chance to get ahead of it. Make the most of what you know. It was all going to occur with or without your involvement anyway. Are you going to do the right thing and make a stand against the tyranny or will you lie down like the rest of your comrades and let the people who let this PMC debacle spiral out of control step all over you?_"

The air was so cold Cirae imagined she could see her breath. Even though it had been probably a century since she had felt the chilled spike of metal slip between her teeth to deliver its potent hit of vapor, she now felt a distinct craving for the drug and all the cleansing it promised to tickle her mind with.

"What the fuck do you think?" she growled.

"_Then welcome aboard, Representative_," Miranda said. "_Come down to Earth and we'll meet—_"

"No," Cirae shook her head as she dashed back into her bedroom, the deep blue of her skin blending in with the perfect black of her darkened hallway. She threw off her towel as she headed to her closet—the automatic lights surged on, finally revealing her bare body for the first time tonight as she furrowed and searched for clothes to wear. "No, Earth is too close. Too easy for prying eyes. Head to Thessia, at my district. I'll join you there once I've finished with my business here."

"_Business? What sort of business?_"

The asari's hand reached down and yanked open a darkly colored hardwood drawer in her closet. A large felt box was the sole object inside—bolted with two brass clasps. She flicked them both open and lifted the top of the box until it hit the edge of its hinges. A polished Acolyte pistol in yellow and black colors sat inside. A tiny insignia of a warped sun was etched on the side of the barrel. Cirae stared at the weapon for a while before she reached out and delicately grabbed it, parting the gun from its felt clutches.

"Call it the _retribution_ sort of business," Cirae growled as she slammed a thermal clip into the receiver, the first of many.

The slide slammed forward with a loud and frightful _CLACK!_

* * *

**A/N: From here on out, it's going to be either action or scenes of relative importance for the rest of the story. Not to say that what has been shown so far was not important, only that these next few chapters will help dispel any confusion with regard to the events that have gone on in Monolith. I do hope you will enjoy them.**

**Playlist:**

**Developing the Plan**  
**"Stepping Stones"**  
**Ludvig Forssel**  
**Death Stranding (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Apartment Tussle**  
**"Hinx"**  
**Thomas Newman**  
**Spectre (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	26. Chapter 26: Heist II - Day of Ice

"_That picture was a placeholder. It should never have made it into the final game."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Triton_

The exalted and ultimately primordial crests of frozen mountains slashed at the tattered night, carving the light of Neptune's sister moons in half while faint speck of the sun bounced off the ice that capped the tops. Jagged ridges, carved from a thoughtless and irrational surge of corpus energy, marked the barriers of the valley, not having been exposed to elements or time to erode its edges down to smooth curves. Perhaps Triton could have sustained a chance as a place for life to flourish, if the cold blue maelstrom-stricken world it was tethered to had not snatched its fetal foundations before gravity and pressure had given it form.

A crunchy blue-white plain stretched from one end of the mile-long basin to the other surrounded by the newborn mountains. From time to time, erratic plumes of subterranean nitrogen gas burst through the glass-like crust in towering jets, billowing brief clouds of the colorless element for a scant few seconds. The unimaginably cold temperatures would take hold of them and freeze the geysered gas into a solid hail, now doomed to slowly float its way back down to the surface in a sleeting torrent.

At the far edge of the valley, a Kodiak sat on the lone landing pad with its engines steaming. Two other craft, stone-dead cold, were situated next to it, one with Alliance colors adorning it. A group of five, borne from the shuttle, trudged down the singular metal walkway that led to the base of a nearby mountain across the temporary flat the plain of the valley provided. A solitary door embedded into the rock wall shimmered tantalizingly, acting as a beacon for the wayward travelers. The walkway made hollow metal sounds as boots tromped upon it—it had been erected on stilts so that anyone venturing upon it would be situated a couple of feet above the reflective and ever-still surface.

The air was dead here. Hollow. No wind to blow upon anyone's frame. Roahn's eyes swept across the landscape, taking stock of the decrepit surroundings. Her suit's heater was working overtime, but she could still feel the cold through the thick membrane. Even her visor was starting to fog with every breath she exhaled.

Frozen nitrogen ice crunched around the metal stilts of the walk. A brief blizzard of numb pellets assaulted Roahn's frame, the little bits making pinging noises as they bounced off her mask. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Garrus next to her draw himself in a bit, also perturbed by the cold. Skye and Korridon behind her were making noises of discontent, not at all appreciative of the current setting.

Oddly, the only one who was not fazed by the alien landscape was the man leading the group. Shepard had temporarily overcome his lethargic limp and was dressed up in armor again (sans any N7 coloration), taking charge as he guided the squad towards the door that led to Aegir Base. Roahn kept a careful eye on her father. He had been rather maladroit of late, she had noticed, most likely stemming from health complications she feared he was not being completely open about. Heavy-footed and shuffling, as though he sought to avoid being taken by an arthritic flare-up not because of the pain but because of the fact that it sought to destroy the one true image he had erected for his own daughter. But now, either from the low gravity or from the reassurance the armor provided, Shepard avoided a gauche gait and powered his way forward with an energetic determination she had not seen from him in… years, perhaps.

Near the entrance to the base, the walkway split to the right. A few maintenance sheds and an open-air garage had been erected near one of the wide chasms that connected to the adjacent valleys beyond. Garrus stopped at the fork in the road and tapped the side of his helmet, activating his zoom feature as he stared in the direction of the garage.

"No vehicles in sight," he reported. "We got lucky with the timing of the patrol."

By chance, Roahn looked up and strained to peer through the obnoxious veil of stars, searching for… there! A lone speck of light, moving as opposed to its static peers, gently blinking as it made a silent screaming through the sky. The _Menhir_, their loyal overseer.

Roahn looked at her omni-tool to read one of the latest reports from Liara that had just come through. The asari was safely up on the ship, constantly monitoring the zone of operations on her multitude of terminals. Their reliable eye in the sky.

"_Menhir's_ picked up two vehicles to the northwest," she reported on the squad channel, reading Liara's shorthand to the group. "Alliance tags. Two squads of six. One vehicle's moving away from the base. The other will be back in roughly twenty minutes."

"_Hunh_, we have our time limit," Shepard said as he walked to the base's entrance. Upon reaching the door, the man palmed the interface crudely bolted onto the frame. A spinning wheel icon booted up as it frantically tried to connect to the net, having received Shepard's ident tags.

"Fucking freezing, even with my suit on," Skye groused as she rubbed at her arms uselessly.

Garrus gave the outside temperatures a quick check. "Not surprising, given the complete lack of a sustaining atmosphere out here. A serious suit breach would be a death sentence."

"How serious would it have to be?"

"A puncture might not do the trick, but a large gash certainly would," Roahn answered in the turian's stead. "A lack of oxygen in such a small timeframe means loss of consciousness in about fifteen seconds. The cold will be the least of your problems at that point. You won't die from frostbite at least—warmth does not dissipate that quickly in vacuum."

"Yay, that's reassuring." Skye gave a wry chuckle as a thought came to her. "Now I know what it's like to have _your_ life."

Roahn blew air from her nose as she rolled her eyes. "Not even close," she said. _What's the matter? Feel vulnerable, Skye?_ she wanted to ask, but bit back such a venomous comment.

Shepard lifted a hand. "It's going through now."

As he spoke, the entrance panel emitted a quiet beep of approval. The locks cycled, releasing a sudden rush of filtered air before they parted, revealing an empty lift buried within the mountainside. The party of five quietly shuffled in, all eager to escape the cold. Only after the door resealed itself and everyone's omni-tool was soon reading that the atmosphere was rapidly back to breathable levels did everyone (sans Roahn) remove their helmet, desperate to be free of their infernal prisons.

"We're on schedule?" Shepard scratched at his neck as he slotted his helmet to his waistband.

Korridon, after fumbling with his helmet seals initially, had gotten it removed after Roahn had come over to help him. His eyes held a vulnerable warmth that emitted the requisite thanks to the quarian. Remembering himself, he consulted his timetable to double-check his figures.

"The automated gate is up next," he reported. "Assuming that I managed to convert everyone's military access, we should get by the security check no problem."

"We'll get by," Shepard assured. "Otherwise we wouldn't have been permitted to land the Kodiak at the pad, right?"

Korridon looked to the ceiling, as if he expected to find his response etched between the crudely soldered beams there. "When you put it like that…"

The silence afterward was interrupted only from the staccato stirrings that the elevator emitted as ice-rusted gears laboriously cranked the enveloped box further into the deep core of the moon. No one inside had the urge to quip about the length it took to reach their destination, though admittedly more than one would have the random inclination to do so. As it stood, it only took less than a minute in total for the lift to finally reach the terminal floor, upon which a sparse and hastily constructed framework of a hallway was there to greet them. There were no guards, no lifeforms to observe their exit.

Roahn felt like her weapons, slotted onto her back, were acting as a suspicious counterweight that would only suffice to give away her squad's true intentions. They lingered there, seemingly desiring to tip her over and to leave her vulnerable. But as soon as her father moved off the lift, she shook out of her trance, finding it easier to breathe in the presence of calmer minds.

After traversing a few meters, Shepard lifted a hand, the signal for everyone to halt. The man looked down on the floor. A white arrow had been painted onto the cement just a few feet in front of him. "PROCEED FORWARD CAREFULLY," the verbiage next to the arrow read. Everyone's gazes then lifted upward—the area just beyond was suspiciously bare, but it was also worth noting that the walls and the ceiling for perhaps a five meter stretch of the corridor were draped in blackened glass, acting as a sort of tunnel for all new arrivals to proceed through.

"It's the advanced identity scanners," Korridon murmured. "They'll check all of our idents, make sure we're affiliated with the right unit."

"Well," Garrus said after he gave his neck a quick crack, "I suppose we'll soon see just how good a job you did with faking our credentials, eh?"

To give his words the ammunition he intended, Garrus confidently strode past Shepard, eyes maintained straight forward in a stalwart expression of fearlessness. His feet led his body into the monitored tunnel, but he did not slow. Nothing in his body displayed any tentativeness or irresolute intentions. The turian could very well have enacted a slow blink… and would have found himself at the end of the hall, all sensors unperturbed and ever silent.

Roahn and Shepard then embarked forth, emboldened at seeing their friend, their captain, take the lead without incident, though Roahn held a deep wish that she would have been the first one to demonstrate that any fears need not hold any residency in their heads. Like Garrus, they too passed through the glass hallway without any of the sensors going off, indicating that the credentials embedded within their omni-tools were legitimate and thus not at all needing to be flagged due to further suspicions. Korridon and Skye would soon join them, but Roahn did take note that they had been stealing tense glances at one another, perhaps wondering if the alarms were to go off that it would have all been on the account of the other and not themselves. The selfsame outcome came to pass regardless, and soon the squad of five was rejoined on the other side.

Recalling from memory, the manned security checkpoint was down on the next level, stationed at the foot of the upcoming staircase. Seeing as there was only one direction in which to proceed—down the hallway which took an abrupt left in about a dozen meters—the squad headed there without any debate.

Everyone's boots made knocking echoes upon the concrete stairs as they proceeded downward. There were two flights to contend with, leading deeper and deeper into the recesses of the moon. Why the Alliance had not budgeted to insert another elevator here was anyone's guess—more than one person had the notion that either the Alliance was being cheap or was sadistically unsympathetic to their own soldiers.

Rounding a turn, the second flight of stairs now in view, Garrus was about to complete the automatic maneuver of setting his foot down upon the first step when he suddenly halted in place, leg frozen in mid-air. He threw a fist up—the universal signal to halt in place. Everyone behind the turian stilled themselves, eyes growing wider and wider as their confusion began to mount.

"Do… not… make a sound," Garrus whispered over the comm.

Tentatively, Roahn edged around the corner, hand nearing the grip of her pistol. She looked down towards the foot of the stairs. The ceiling of the stairwell was partially blocking her view, but creeping just from the edge, a dark and luminous stream of liquid was plaintively crawling along the ground. Venous branches broke off from the main tributary—Roahn realized she was staring at a pool of blood.

_Not again_.

Garrus gave the hand motion for everyone to draw their weapons, followed up with the instruction to make a silent approach. They descended the staircase one at a time, Garrus in the lead followed closely by Roahn. Their feet tread carefully upon the steps, careful not to misstep upon an area that would create an unexpected noise. The foyer in the next floor down turned out to be empty, with the exception of the brutally decapitated body that had been left down here to greet them.

Roahn had to bite the inside of her cheek to prevent the sensation of rising bile in her throat from gripping her. It had suddenly gotten quite cold once again in her suit. Her palms were taking on a slight sweat out of sheer panic. As the squad approached the mutilated body—an Alliance soldier, judging by their armor colors—Roahn could only think of the carnage she had first stumbled upon on Luna and the madness that had closely followed her discovery.

Everyone took care to step over the trail of blood that leaked from the stump of the soldier's neck. Skye craned her head to the side as she followed the trajectory of a nearby blood splatter. "Head," she tonelessly remarked as she lifted a finger. Everyone followed her indication out of reflex, spotting the still-helmeted head of the brutalized soldier just a couple of meters away down an adjacent hallway, gore having been painted across every surface near the unfortunate object as though someone had taken an aggressive brush to the place.

Korridon turned away with a disgusted shudder. Roahn mustered a slow blink, trying to drive the terrible images out of her head. Garrus and Shepard had stone-faced expressions on, having been desensitized to the worst sort of violence imaginable in their shared experience. Sad to say that this was perhaps one of the easier sorts of sights to stumble upon in their line of work.

"Damn," Garrus gritted. "We might be too late."

"Careful," Roahn had to grab the turian's shoulder plate before he could proceed. "We don't know who's still here." _What they might be capable of_, was certainly the implication.

Hefting his rifle, Garrus adjusted a control on his eyepiece as he linked the two devices, emitting his scope's view onto the gear that rested upon his head. "We'll take this slow. Nice and easy."

Each step further into the base threatened to spill forth a slew of repressed emotions that resided just underneath the surface level of Roahn's subconscious. A nameless fear. Dark and intense. They lied in wait, eager to press against the rusted lock that had been crudely slapped over the gates in a careless attempt to hold them back.

The terrible lighting cast the five in sheets of white, halving them in shadow. Everyone took a dreadful note that the security booth they soon came across was conspicuously empty—not a good omen. Soon after passing the deserted post by, scattered and demanding voices could be discerned from somewhere very close. Around the next corner it seemed, which was coincidentally where the vault in the base was located. Garrus purposefully slowed his gait. Everyone else followed suit.

The voices were louder here. No doubt that if someone were to peer around the corner, they would be able to spot the source of the commotion. But there was no sense in risking getting spotted—rushing in blindly at this point could be tantamount to suicide if they did not approach this intelligently.

Without being prompted, Roahn hit a control on her omni-tool and a tiny camera drone fluttered free with a blink. It spiraled through the air, inconspicuous at a distance, and took up residence near the ceiling, amongst the bundles of cables and oxygen pipes that ran for miles throughout the facility.

Roahn piped the camera's feed to everyone's implant view. Displayed directly within their eyeballs, everyone could get a perfect view of the scene just beyond their sight. In the next room, three Alliance soldiers were on their knees, all in varying states of injury. Three other bodies belonging to their comrades were lying motionless around them—the width of the pools of blood around their corpses were the only indications of which one had been killed the most recently. Five troopers decked in shadowed armor lazily punctuated the scene. Dark Horizon, it had to be. Roahn swiveled the view of her drone, frantically searching for a terrible presence overseeing the entire horror, but from what she could tell, none of the beings who haunted her nightmares was apparently in the room.

Was that a relief to her? Roahn had no idea how to process this. At some level, she had been expecting to run into Aleph, Raucous, or any one of that sinister quartet. It was as if she had been preparing for such a moment for months. To see, with her own eyes, a replication of the very events that had preceded her maiming on Luna only to be lacking the antagonistic force that drove her… it would only serve to press on her mind with worry.

The Dark Horizon troopers were milling about the room, the solid steel door to the vault still locked shut in front of them. They must be in the process of "negotiating" the code out of the stationed Alliance forces here, Roahn figured. One of the PMC henchmen was crouched in front of a bound man in Alliance armor, combat knife in hand—the ringleader, ostensibly. Two other troopers, one with a flamethrower, covered the hallway entrance/exit, not having noticed Roahn's drone yet. The other two Dark Horizon soldiers remained near their captives, itchy trigger fingers dangerously close to setting off their weapons as they basked in the brutal mutilation.

The mercenary with the knife waggled his weapon, indicating a sensitive spot between the legs of his current interrogatee. Probably a tactic he had learned from his boss, the Aeronaut. "Round four," he hissed through a crackling vocabulator. He tilted his helmeted head in the direction of the vault. "Lucky number four. Want this to end? Then give me the vault's access card."

His captive was in a bad way. He had already been roughened up prior to Roahn and the others arriving on the scene. Blood wept from several cuts on his face, thick like oil. Bruises marred the skin around his cheekbones and eyes. His nose was broken and already starting to clot around the nostrils. A rasping wheeze emitted from the recesses of his throat, like one of his lungs had been punctured from a brutal beating. He looked like he was barely clinging to life—not even the threat of castration appeared to faze him.

That, of course, did not do for the man conducting the questions. He gave an oblique nod to one of the other mercenaries standing by. They took a step forward and walloped the man across the back of his head with the stock of their rifle. Blood burst from a ruptured eardrum and the Alliance captive uttered a stark cry, already sounding drained from previous agonies. The interrogator reached out a hand and grabbed hold of the prisoner's jaw so that they would not teeter over completely.

"Access card," he repeated dispassionately.

Through smashed lips and ruined eyes, the prisoner struggled to lift his head. Incredibly, he started to smile. The process to do so must have been painful.

"Think I left it up your mother's—"

Razor-swift, the brutal inquisitor surged his arm forward and lodged the knife in the back of his prisoner's mouth. There was a terrible gagging sound and a gush of blood swept over the teeth in the man's lower jaw, slipping over his killer's gloved fingers. He was gone instantly.

Watching the entire scene play out through her viewscreen, Roahn felt sick to her stomach. It had all occurred so _quickly! _There had been no time at all for her or anyone else to react.

"Cute," the helmeted mercenary snarled as he continued to kneel in place, dead eyes of his victim mirrored in his face-plate.

As he yanked the stained and standard-length blade free, one of the last two living captives, a blond-haired woman, could not help herself any longer and shot to her feet, breath streaming out in wild gasps as she raced to the exit, unknowingly heading toward where Roahn and potential rescue was lurking in wait. Little did the woman know that her safety could have been secured with additional patience.

One of the mercenaries wheeled about, a cutting burst of machine-gun fire ripping through the air. Skin, muscle, and bone popped and the woman fell to the ground in a violent splatter of blood. She was still alive, but was trying to lift her arm in a daze, or what was left of it; the bullets had completely destroyed the limb to the point that it was halfway hanging off her body. Strands of sinew and meaty stumps of fingers dangled uselessly, freely dripping fluids. The woman tried to cry out, but all she could utter was a pitiful gurgle. Her body thrashed as she lay there on the ground, succumbing to helpless twitches.

Rising to his feet, the lead mercenary walked over to the stirring body of the Alliance solider and shook his head in derision.

"Ah, shit. She's going into shock. She's not going to be useful to anyone now."

The woman curled into a ball, the pool of blood growing larger underneath her. The trooper that had shot her over her quickly levelled his submachine gun accordingly.

"Make it so that she'll be difficult to identify."

For the second time in the last five minutes, Roahn felt a solemn burst of dissociation hurl itself from her body as she realized the consequences that were about to befall the woman. She felt pathetic, impotent. Little better than a disinterested bystander. She wanted so dearly to lift out an arm and to see all of those troopers in there fall dead with just the flick of a wrist, felled straight out of thin air.

But they were all out of reach. Seemed like everything in her life never wanted to stay within her grip anyway.

The weapon gave a hollow bang and the woman's head flew apart in a gory mess of blood and brains. The frenzied spasms ceased instantly, still fingertips spattered with crimson liquid.

"We're out of time," the trooper said as he his hands swept across the grip of his holstered pistol, carelessly turning a heel to disregard the new body he had left lying on the cold ground. He pointed a finger towards two of his comrades in turn before he approached the final prisoner. "Cut off what you can from this one's body that he can live without. We can take turns betting on when he reaches his breaking point."

The last hostage, a middle-aged man with frosty hair, had a tough exterior about them but it could be plainly observed that he was harboring a severe fearfulness behind his wide eyes. Not content to let his captors off so easy, the man quickly made a lunge for something hidden in a side pocket. He withdrew what looked like a square red chit with rounded corners. Before anyone could react, the man shoved the card into his mouth and forcefully swallowed, a large lump making his way down his throat with a grimace.

The interrogator did not even seem fazed as he gave a singular once-over to the culprit who had just swallowed the access key he needed. "I suppose you think you're clever?" he intoned, his voice rather mild.

"Perhaps," the captive man coughed. "I just bought myself some leverage, after all."

The trooper seemed to consider this for a moment before he slowly shook his head. "No, I don't think you did."

Without being ordered, two Dark Horizon troopers quickly moved in and grabbed the captive's arms, holding him in place for a frenzied second. The lead trooper centered himself accordingly before he lifted his foot back and delivered a savage kick to his hostage's gut. A heavy boot impacted and indented squarely through unprotected and soft flesh. The man tried to double over in a coughing and spluttering fit, but the mercenaries holding him in place would not allow him to do so.

The hostage wretched, pained as the access key traveled back up his gullet as the urge to vomit took him by surprise. He clamped his jaw shut though, unwilling to let the item pass from his mouth into the hands of his enemies. However, he would be unprepared for the savageness and simultaneous desperation that his captors were willing to exercise. The lead interrogator abruptly dropped to a knee and closed a large hand over the wheezing man's throat. The trooper's knife was back in his other hand—Roahn could see through the screen just what he intended to do and her mouth fell silently open as her own gut dipped into a freefalling plunge that sent her entire mind spinning with horror.

There was a slash of metal and the quick sound of what appeared to be a longing sigh. A thick red gash had been opened up in the captive's neck. Dark pillars of blood burst from the opened arteries in a pulsating mist, momentarily drenching the assailant. The knife had torn through cartilage and nerves to open up the trachea. A dark whistling sound could be discerned—the lingering and pathetic death knell. Without hesitation, the trooper reached his hand into the wound, plunging his fingers through muscle and carotid sheathes as he slipped and fumbled his way inside.

Roahn felt like she was about to throw up. Next to her, Garrus had on a furious grimace. Skye looked particularly shaken and Korridon was doing his damnedest not to watch.

The trooper, hand still inside the throat of the dying man, gave a firm yank as he gripped something within. The body rippled in a fatigued pulse, refusing to release whatever it was the mercenary had grabbed. Another yank, another shuddering ripple. Now gradually pulling, the trooper gave a grunt and finally, with a crunching sound and a splash of more blood to add to the macabre collage of gore, he fell backwards onto his ass, an access card dribbling with carnage held tightly between thumb and index finger.

"Always figured I'd make a good surgeon," the mercenary quipped as he got to his feet after shaking the card clean.

Roahn could take it no more. She tapped Garrus on the shoulder and relayed her intent with a simple nod of the head. She then stood from her position and brazenly rounded the corner, assault rifle already shouldered.

"Consider your career cut short," she snarled.

The first round she unleashed passed right through the torturer's neck, exiting in a flurry of blood and gore that arced in an impressive trajectory. He had only begun to collapse, stone-dead, when the quarian quickly turned her heels and focused her next shot on the now-closest Dark Horizon trooper, the one with the flamethrower. He had not even gotten his weapon up when the first round from Roahn hit him in a precarious position right between his legs. The ground right below him quickly splashed a vibrant and slick red. He collapsed, already groaning in pain when Roahn's second volley removed the top of his helmeted head, as if someone had carved out part of his skull with a metal scoop. The flamethrower bounced to the ground, the final flame that leaked out of it shivering in the sudden absence before it finally died in its solitude.

Garrus and Skye then bounded out from their positions and laid into the final three troopers that had just gotten their bearings together. One of Garrus' sniper shots impacted perfectly onto a merc's chest, the kinetic force spinning them around completely before death overtook them. Skye's own bullets shredded the legs of another trooper that had been moving forward to gain a better position—she finished him off two seconds later with a bullet to the head.

The last trooper Roahn took care of in short order. He had been fumbling by himself all out in the open, unsure of what to do when all hell had broken loose. She did not give the man any time to consider his position. She unleashed a trio of well-placed shots—the fifth and final mercenary collapsed, all three shots having made contact with his stomach. He shuddered in weak gasps while blood leaked from his fresh wounds, no doubt in a lot of pain.

And just like that, the skirmish was over.

Roahn approached the first of the Alliance bodies she saw, ready to lend a hand. It was soon apparent that there was no point—all of the hostages were well within the thralls of death judging from the catastrophic mutilation that had been applied to their bodies. A grimace creased her mouth as she stood among the dead, blotchy red footprints marking a deadly trail around her.

The last trooper that Roahn had shot had yet to expire, though. He was painfully rocking on his back, hands cradling his gut which now looked like ground hamburger, a common side effect of absorbing three bullets fired at high velocity. Skye had hurried over by now and had picked up the flamethrower that had been previously deposited by one of the trooper's colleagues when he had bought the farm (again, courtesy of Roahn). The flamethrower was a newer model—white polymer coating that looked like enamel, oversized fuel canister, aesthetically pleasing to the eye—and was easily activated after a few pulls of the trigger, spewing blindingly hot fans of flame that danced in the curves of Roahn's visor. She now walked over menacingly to the downed trooper, holding her newly acquired weapon in a threatening manner.

"Give as good as you get," the woman snarled to the dying mercenary, who was probably too imbibed on his own agony to even acknowledge her words anyway. "Unfortunately for you, I _also_ practice what I preach!"

Korridon, now also in the room, had turned at the sound of Skye's brutal declaration. As soon as he laid eyes upon the flamethrower in her hands, something changed within the man. An intrinsic and downright nameless dread seemed to fill the turian at the very sight of the fire-spitting device, its heat washing over him in powerful waves. His hands, as if exposed to a fierce cold, took on a shake. The flames from the weapon died down, but they remained lit in his eyes. Automatically, his legs moved in long strides, his hands gripping at something latched to his waist while Skye lined up her shot on the downed mercenary.

Roahn was about to call out to Skye, anything to dissuade her from completing her violent inclination. But as soon as the flamethrower's muzzle was fixated upon the trooper's head, the sharp crack of a pistol shot rang out. The mercenary finally flopped to the ground, lifeless and still. A round hole in his helmet oozed blood and smoke.

The same vapor poured from the barrel of Korridon's pistol as he stood in the middle of the room, his arm outstretched, and a blank look on his face.

"We gave enough," the turian rasped, still staring down at the man he had just killed. "_Enough_."

Skye groaned, not understanding the fact that Korridon was in a lot of anguish at this moment. "You took my k—"

The quarian knocked the flamethrower out of Skye's hands with a fierce blow from her prosthesis. The weapon bounced to the ground with a loud and clamorous rattle. The housing cracked from the impact and the fuel drum disconnected and rolled away, spilling a few precious droplets. Skye jumped backward in alarm, rubbing at her wrist, and was about to make a startled exclamation until she saw the absolute fury that had enveloped Roahn's eyes at this moment, so bright they could have shattered the glass of her mask.

Roahn could have slapped Skye. The insensitivity of it… the downright barbarism! So willing to pick up that immolating device without any sort of consideration to the consequences both observable and beneath the surface.

She walked up and lowered her voice so only Skye might hear. She had to crane her head upward due to the human being just a few inches taller. "You… _idiot_," she seethed. "Do you even know what you were intending to do?"

"Yes, Roahn," Skye said loudly and matter-of-factly, apparently not at all abashed. "I was avenging these—"

But Roahn would not hear any of it. She raised a hand between both of their faces right as she looked away, cutting Skye off. When the human tried to voice her protest again, Roahn responded by jabbing her hand closer to her lover's mouth indignantly, hoping that her immeasurable disappointment could be conveyed in such a brief action.

Shepard and Garrus were staring, naturally drawn to the conflict. Roahn gave a slow blink and her head a brief shake before lowering her hand.

"We'll discuss this… _incident_ when we're back on the ship. Until then, keep your hands to your own damn weapons."

She then bent down and plucked the blood-stained access card from where it had dropped, next to the freshly killed mercenary she had shot. She then walked over and grabbed at Korridon's arm, leading him towards the vault door and everyone else behind.

By the time they had passed into the next room, the younger turian was getting rather anxious. "Back there," he began to say, "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't apologize," Roahn gruffly said as they halted in front of the vault door. The egress point was standard Alliance quality; thick and dense starship steel, triple bolted, sliding access point, plus an integrated keypad built into the doorframe. Opening her tool, she conducted a quick scan for any physical weak points that were lying under the surface. As expected, there were none that could be discerned as she cycled through the wavelength views, but that did not mean that this was a dead end for them.

Roahn placed the access card into the slot on the keypad. A monochrome screen flashed as it accepted the physical access key. There were no other prompts to be displayed as the software was now awaiting the digital security key, which was going to be the tricky part of the operation. Not even close to deterred, Roahn linked her omni-tool to the datapad—an easy endeavor considering it had the most complicated serial number on the network, thus denoting its importance—and primed up her cracking program. Next to her, Korridon was nearly shaking as he wrung his hands, something eating away at his mind.

"Roahn… I didn't want to shoot that man. But Skye… she looked like…"

"I told you not to apologize," Roahn sighed but she dropped her arms and turned towards him, providing the turian with her full attention. "You did what you had to. You just didn't want to see a man burned to death in front of you. I don't blame you. It's not a nice way to go."

"No, it isn't."

Something about the conviction in Korridon's voice gave Roahn pause. Almost as if the turian knew exactly the sort of hell he had just spared the mercenary from undergoing.

It was a fate he had to have seen once already. It was the light in his eyes, the quick and nearly imperceptible flash of savagery that gave it away.

"What happened to you, Korr?" she whispered. "Why are you really here?"

Korridon blinked, not understanding the question. "You picked me for this mission… didn't you?"

Roahn shook her head. "Why are you here with Umbra? What made you look to us? Did you think you could find some redemption here?"

The turian tightened his jaw, almost as if he was now wishing that he was anywhere else other than here. "You should already know," he said. "You've seen my file. You know that I had no future anywhere else."

"Because you were charged with insubordination."

"But you don't really know why, do you?"

Roahn faltered, a lump in her throat lodging there. Her hands unconsciously flexed, all pressure, as she felt her entire body seem to draw in upon itself, a compact and denser form resistant to damaging changes.

Korridon's eyes flashed to the right, making certain that no one else was in earshot. "I killed my superior officer."

The turian lurched, as if he wanted to say more, but kept his mouth tightly shut after that. Roahn could have sworn that she had just heard a dark presence laughing some shadowy corner of her mind, but the phantom faded before she could hone in on its location.

"Was it justified?" her follow-up seemed pitiful, her voice now light and sounding hopelessly naïve.

Korridon shook his head. "In cold blood."

Roahn stayed frozen in place, unsure of how to react. Was Korridon expecting her to yell hurtful words denoting the betrayal of her trust? To shy away in backlash against the destruction of the previous image she had built up in her head of the man? She was still here, wasn't she? So was he, evidentially. But still… such honest brutality. No punches pulled. As if he did not anticipate her immediate comprehension, or if he hoped she would ever comprehend his motives.

"They gave you insubordination instead of murder?"

A clawed hand raked at the turian's own face, razing part of the orange facepaint that had been liberally applied to his carapace, sloughing it off in wide chunks. "The situation was… complicated. Problematic for everyone. Insubordination was the only way the judicial board could placate both sides, to assign what they felt was the appropriate amount of fault." Korridon then unexpectedly slammed a fist into the wall, creating a dull ringing throughout the room. He pried his fingers away from the impact area, the cartilage around his digits now scratched. "Fuck. I shouldn't have brought this up. This was the wrong time, Roahn, I'm sorry."

Roahn was torn between the two warring halves of her—her professional side and her inquisitive side. After such a bombshell like that, of _course_ she would have wanted to know the specifics of what had possessed Korridon to do something like what he had said. Shy, considerate Korridon murdering his own superior officer? Had it not come from his own mouth she would have laughed it off for it sounded so ridiculous. Yet the other half agreed with the turian in that this was the wrong time to discuss this. The both of them had a job to do, not to delve deep into each other's past for the sake of discerning motivation.

She grabbed at his arm, gently, with her real hand. Her expression behind her visor softened, no longer judgmental and accusing. "When you're comfortable, I would like to know the story." She then released him as she reopened her tool, focusing on the mission again. "When we're back on the ship, come to my cabin any time and we can just talk. No repercussions. Just us. Talking."

Slit pupils rose to meet hers, a wary and newfound hope that had been long buried just now starting to become unearthed in his eyes.

"I think I'll take you up on that, commander," he choked out gratefully.

She smiled, though the subtle movement was difficult to discern through the sapphire glaze. Ending this dialog with a pronounced nod, the two of them settled back into their operational mindset, closing off all emotional gates to return themselves to the objective that required their full and utmost attention.

_We all have our demons, Korr. It's our life's duty to find the right way to kill them. You may be able to tell me yours… but I'll never reveal mine. That's my burden to bear._

Returning her thoughts to the here and now, Roahn found her concentration seeping back with every deep breath she took. Her hacking program was still locked on to the vault's datapad. With a few precise button presses, she initiated a process that began examining the construct of the base's network thereby formulating a digital framework on her very tool. Machine-learning software in her omni-tool took the intruding packets—little bits of tracking information that were barely intrusive so that they would not trip any security alerts—that Roahn had been sending out into the network she wished to hack and began hypothesizing the complex digital architecture on her own private network located around her wrist. A few seconds later, she received a notification indicating that the process she had initiated was now finished. A clone of the Alliance's system, security protections and all, now resided on her own tool, ready for her to play with.

There were perhaps many more elegant ways of cracking the datapad to a vault like this one, but the one thing that complex and beautiful digital solutions required that Roahn did not have was time. The most expert hackers in the galaxy used clever tactics such as custom rootkits and social engineering to derive the perfect exploit into the system they wished to access. The methods that Roahn had at her disposal were rudimentary, crude, and quite messy to their network victim. This time, the process was not the most important part. The result was the point. It had always been the point.

Cloning a victim system was an uncommon hacking method that had good reason to be utilized so rarely. It required at least a secure-level user access to the network in question (which Roahn had obtained from her father) and the right software needed to craft the clone in the first place, which was an expensive and unwieldy piece of software unavailable to the public. But, a cloned system was beneficial in that it allowed the hacker to run any sort of exploitation tool they desired, even the obnoxiously detectable ones like brute-force attacks and vulnerability scanners, and they would not trip any third-party detection because the "network" was now on another drive. Her drive. Roahn essentially now had free reign over the cloned system, able to play with it to her heart's content. Any solution found in her own instance could be utilized in the real one, without ever having made any serious assault against its actual defenses in the first place.

Not willing to let just one process to do all the work, Roahn unleashed three separate applications on the clone network that were designed to punch their way through the levels of encryption by cycling through a series of repeatable steps in the form of system attacks. Little by little, each layer of security was slowly whittled away, with more and more letters of the digital access key being revealed over time as every conceivable combination of characters was brutally applied to the clone system. It took less than two minutes for the deluge of applications to reach the unveiled password and it soon popped up on the screen for Roahn to just take, as if it had been given to her in offering.

Roahn copied the password and reconnected her way onto the Alliance network, deleting the clone for good measure. Her heart leaped as the password immediately took. No error screens for this quarian! The grin she had on her face must have been infectious because she could see the same expression take hold of Korridon as they heard the vault doors begin to shift.

Heavy metal slid aside to reveal a blank room with just a singular cart parked in the middle. A thick black case sat upon the top of the cart, plaintive and unassuming. It appears that the vault had only been constructed to accommodate this one item. Approaching it, Roahn could feel a membranous pulse slide inside her head, a watery filter that accompanied a drunken sway.

"Feel that?" Roahn momentarily clutched her head.

"Yeah," Korridon said as he widened his stance. "Residual energy from the artifact."

The turian unclasped the case and gently lifted it open. The artifact had been laid across a bed of foam stalagmites within, balanced perfectly upon the soft tips, awaiting interaction. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than a rough and jagged black stone, looking like it had just been chiseled from the ground in ore form. But upon closer inspection, Roahn could see that one of its sides was flattened, like a delicate knife had just carved away part of it. This side was smooth and polished and deeply etched with intricate and sophisticated markings interwoven and esoteric in its design. Roahn wondered if it was a pictogram that was being displayed here, or some ancient language that defied alphanumeric shapes to relay and comprehend information. Whatever the case, it certainly matched the cryptic designs she had seen on all the other artifacts thus far. That, plus the sloshing feeling of dark energy pounding her head was all the confirmation she needed that this was in fact what they had come for.

Korridon reached out, segmented and fractured circles rotating upon his palm while thin lines of strobed light stabbed out, touching every corner and angle of the artifact. Roahn tilted her head in wonderment, soon realizing that the turian was conducting a quick scan of the artifact. She could see a brief profile of the object plus wavelengths of its energy output appear on his omni-tool's screen.

The turian looked towards her after he shut down his tool. "Backup. Just in case," he explained.

Roahn knelt down and unfurled a strapped duffel bag from a compartment in the small of her back. Snapping the case shut, she shoved it towards the bag so that it could be consumed by the thick canvas. She then zipped the bag back up and slung it over her shoulders, bouncing it so that she could shift the weight for an ideal distribution on her body.

"All set?" Korridon asked, breath bated.

The quarian yanked on the straps to tighten them. Her hand brushed the grip of her pistol before she lifted it away, unconcerned with the weapon for now.

When she looked up at him, all the turian could see was a fierce determination.

"All set," Roahn nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

The air was still and cold in the elevator as the squad hustled inside, nerves beginning to jitter upon their bones. The lift quickly shot upward, barreling everyone up through the dead crust of the moon like a bullet out of a gun. Roahn adjusted the weight upon her back—the shoulder straps of the pack were beginning to dig into her skin through her suit. She resisted the urge to check her chronometer—time was going to be tight if the next Alliance patrol was estimated to arrive back at base soon. The soldiers were certainly not going to be all that sympathetic to find their comrades butchered in the lower levels. The circumstantial evidence alone would be nearly impossible to sort out. She would have contacted Liara for confirmation on the patrol's whereabouts, but a little readout in the corner of her suit's HUD indicated that she was still too far underground to get a clear signal to the _Menhir_.

"That little skirmish with Dark Horizon's put us a few minutes behind," Garrus said as the doors began to open. He was already moving before the opening had widened all the way. "We're going to have to make a break to the shuttle."

"We should've posted a lookout at the entrance," Shepard groused as he flexed his hip joint. "Too late to do anything about that now."

Everyone quickly shoved their helmets back onto their heads right as they reached the airlock door. Garrus waited for everyone to give him a thumbs-up or some other sign to indicate team readiness. He then hit the first control to seal the door behind them—once completed, he initiated the atmospheric equalization process before opening the door to Triton's surface.

"Get us in contact with the _Menhir_," Garrus ordered Roahn as he took his first steps out onto the boilingly cold plain. "Tell them to be ready to stand by with… with… oh, crap."

In hindsight, Roahn had already been planning to raise a link with the ship that was irritatingly locked to the barest definition of an atmosphere some hundred miles above her head, and she would have gone through with it had her captain not frozen in place as if his suit had sprung a leak and the beyond subzero temperatures had completely flooded his interior in a catastrophically frigid wave.

It was clear that they had made one major miscalculation. They truly had been beaten to the punch at every turn.

Positioned directly in front of the entrance, using the elevated walkways and several scattered boulders as makeshift cover, nearly a platoon's worth of Dark Horizon troopers had been aiming their weapons at the door that Roahn and the rest of her team had exited from. A _Phantor_ mech, angular and terrible, took up the rear of the ambushing force, both cannons squarely aimed at the center of the Umbra squad. The mech's two legs sunk into the shattered ground about a foot, raising jagged chunks of frozen rock and ice around its feet.

"Hands in the air!" one of the troopers bellowed. "We're not fucking around, do it now!"

"No one reach for anything," Garrus muttered as he slowly, haltingly, began to comply.

Roahn's eyes scrambled back and forth in her incredulity. She wanted to scream if Garrus had a plan for this at all, but everything in her was saying that there was no plan for this sort of outcome. Nothing.

"They _can't_ get the artifact," she nearly moaned in her impotence.

"Just be calm," Garrus said, which seemed like a crazy thing to even utter in this moment. "We can't make a difference if we're dead."

A vibration, discernable even in this voided hell, became a worrisome presence as rasped intakes like exhaust vents sang in the audio receptors of everyone's helmets. From the darkness, a coil-white and impossibly thin outline leapt down from above and landed just in front of the platoon almost as if they had stepped from the door of a passing starship. The impact they left on the walkway caused it to sink down a couple of feet, bending the struts underneath. Silently, they then began to float from where they had fallen, mass effect fields surrounding the skeletal chassis and tenderly exerting its dark forces upon it. Four spindly arms unfolded from behind its main arms on its back, giving the cyborg a spider-like appearance.

"I truly wonder if you had hoped to hold the encroaching storm back with a hand," the Cardinal preened, her voice slithering through everyone's helmet speakers—the cyborg had managed to bypass their security protocols! Her emotionless head, blue light continuously blaring and god-like, swept its beacon gaze upon the members of Umbra. "History evidentially does tend to repeat itself. Now, kindly hand over the artifact. You will have painless deaths if you cooperate."

As the Cardinal finished speaking, her four rear-mounted arms were now being brandished in prime slashing positions. The tips of her arms unsheathed themselves and what looked like dull green spear points exuded from the very ends of those rigid limbs. As soon as they came into view, Roahn's particle detector immediately began crackling loudly in her ears, emphasizing sudden spikes from a nearby energy source.

"Spirits," Garrus buckled, also detecting the same thing. "Radioactive sensors just went off the charts." He took a look at the cyborg's armaments and gave a slight stirring. "She's been completely laced with _polonium_."

"One scratch from those and it's over for you," Shepard grimly noted out loud.

Roahn felt as if lead weights had been anchored to her feet, keeping her in place. Shepard then moved slightly to left after the Cardinal had spoken, partially shielding his daughter from the creature's gaze.

The Cardinal still oozed a calm exterior while four of her infectious arms began to rotate in pinwheeling-like motions. If air had been tangible here it would have been shredded from the cyborg's increasing velocity of her rotations. "Your posturing is only an exercise in recklessness, not heroics. I wonder which of you is the likely culprit for possessing it?" She tilted her head as she considered each member of the squad in turn before she finally seemed to settle upon Roahn. "Ah. Of course. Wouldn't that be fitting? Aleph seems to have quite the obsession for you, quarian. A misplaced hope… but who am I to question his immaculate construct? Will you hand over the artifact or shall I rip your remaining arm off to indulge inevitability's theorem?"

It seemed like everyone else had clustered around Roahn unconsciously to protect her. A foul sensation took hold of the quarian around her neck. Not only was she disgusted at even the vague notion that Aleph routinely considered her, she was—at the same time—taken by an indignant outrage that this metallic brute was displaying such an arrogance, like she actually believed that Roahn would comply with such a request!

Under the stare of rifles, cannons, and unfired bullets, the danger washed away from Roahn as she slowly crept her hand to the grip of her pistol.

Garrus spotted the movement out of the corner of his eye. "Roahn… no…"

"Roahn…" Shepard uttered.

"_Roahn_…" Skye croaked.

Korridon said nothing. Instead, he placed his hand upon her shoulder. Three fingers gently squeezed, locking her in position.

Her next breath billowed warmth through her body. It felt like she had just emerged from a pool of gelatinous liquid, every inhalation a horrible effort. Her hand fell away from her weapon, her last line of defense.

The Cardinal seemed to slump. "How pitiful," her siren-like voice rasped. She seemed rather disappointed. She then raised a hand and swept it forward in a long arc. "Move in," she ordered the Dark Horizon troopers behind her. Taking the lead, she floated on ahead down the warped walkway, a nearly intangible bubble of biotic energy surrounding her form, keeping her levitated.

The mercenaries began to rise up and follow the cyborg's lead in formation. Rifles were slotted against shoulders. Submachine guns were held sideways to allow sight alignment with bulky helmets. Shotguns were lofted at hip-level. They were eerily silent as the air-less moon stifled their footsteps, a procession of shadowed shapes lightly grazing a reflective and glassy surface.

Roahn looked at the elevator shaft behind her. Too far away and the doors were already closed. If they tried to make a break for it, they would be torn apart. She shuffled backwards a step, but Korridon's hand was still on her shoulder, making it difficult to traverse further.

As the mercenaries approached, it soon became apparent that something was causing a distraction among the leftmost positioned troopers in the formation. Several of them were turning to the side, now not at all concentrating on Umbra as something new caught their attention.

"Contact right!" one of them shouted, causing the rest to turn.

Roahn also rotated her head about, as did everyone else. From a nearby canyon, two open-air buggies were silently arriving, throwing up small clouds of particulate ice behind them as they traversed. The vehicles were manned by six troopers each, all decked out in Alliance colors.

"Time's up," Roahn heard her father say next to her.

"You are intruding in an Alliance operating area!" one of the Alliance troopers called out as their buggy slowly rolled to a stop. They leapt out, along with the rest of their team members, and quickly brought their rifles into position, point them at both Umbra and Dark Horizon alike. "Identify yourselves! Now!"

The three separate forces stood in a triangular formation. No one dared move a muscle. They all remained statuesque, finding themselves quite welcome amongst Triton's stillness.

"Well," the Cardinal clucked, "this is quite the unfortunate development."

Garrus edged forward at last, hands still raised in the air. He slowly rotated towards the commanding Alliance officer, hoping his body language would register as a desperate plea for assistance. "Lieutenant, I—"

"Stay right where you are!" the lead Alliance trooper brought his weapon to bear on the turian, a harsh snap of reflexes keeping him taut even in this low gravity. "You do not move forward until we tell you. This is a restricted area. Lay down your weapons or we will fire on you!"

The lieutenant touched a control on his belt and Roahn's omni-tool, as well as everyone else's, gave a soft ping. She then realized that they had all just been tagged. The Alliance had just shot off a flare telling the whole military—damn near the whole galaxy—that her team was intentionally violating sovereign human laws. Umbra had been set up from the very get go. In the right hands, this information would be used to discredit the entire team. They would be disavowed by the Council.

Was this really how everything ended?

"Garrus…" she gave a horrified whisper, but someone else cut in on the comm before she could voice out her complete worries.

"_Signal contact reacquired_," Sagan's voice cut in on the team's private channel. "_Coordinates place you out of the killzone. Firing for effect. Splashdown in two_."

_Wait…_ Roahn realized. _Splashdown in…?_

"I called in the cavalry," Garrus reassuringly murmured.

Quicker than the blink of an eye, a momentary beam as high as the tallest skyscraper in existence glimmered into being for a pure and perfect moment. The light was so immediate that everyone only reacted well after the phenomena had come and gone. The low-mass orbital strike was supremely silent in the paltry atmosphere, the only sonorousness made apparent was the vibrations that rumbled deep within Roahn's helmet, resonating deep into the soft parts of her skull.

In the next second, the two-legged _Phantor_ mech, blew apart in a terrific blast, tongues of flame and strips of metal flinging through the air. The Dark Horizon troopers closest to the mech were shredded into pieces or consumed by the briefest conflagration from the escaping oxygen. Roahn dropped to the ground—the walkway was shuddering. A sputtering roar. A long burst. The debris was still in the process of falling. The Alliance troopers had tripped over themselves, clearly shaken. The Cardinal was still floating—stray random detritus bouncing off her biotic shields—lazily appraising the ruined mech once the vacuum of the deep cold sucked away the fire and the heat.

But Umbra was still standing. Each and every one of them. Still shielded by the geyser of metal, rock, and ice, they all ran as one, plunging themselves across the plain while they braved the dense and white hail of fragmented moon raining down. A snowblind geyser, frozen dirt and ash surrounded by buffets of trapped nitrogen gas. The shuttle was a quarter of a mile away. They could make it.

"Execute them all!" the Cardinal howled.

* * *

For a brief period of time, a small part of the surface of Triton became ablaze with the glittering beams of mass-effect-laden bullets blueshifting across the curvature of the moon. A small valley, one of thousands, was now interlaced with light, a subtle framework that only revealed itself in fleeting bursts.

Roahn raced from boulder to boulder as bullets careened into the ground all around her. Shockwaves of force and light battered her body, pyrotechnics threatening to blind her. She dove behind one of the first rocks large enough to shield her from the brunt of the madness. In the brief lulls she would pop up and return fire of her own. Her gun made satisfying jolts against her shoulder—a welcome pain. Her cybernetic arm kept the rifle from arcing upward too much from the recoil as she tore apart her own sight as the end of the weapon flared over and over again.

A shot arced over the rock and slammed into Roahn's shoulder. Her shields held nicely, but the sudden flare of agony that transpired was a startling shock to her. Fear quickly evaporated into anger as she adjusted her aim and tried to find the bastard that had momentarily gotten lucky with his aim.

Dark Horizon's tactics had been advantageous in their initial ambush, but they were now caught between two fighting forces. Not exactly the prime location to be situated in during a firefight. Worse still, their position had quite the absence of cover to utilize. They still had the advantage of numbers, which was all the more devastating when several errant shots ripped up the ground all around Umbra as they hunkered down for shelter.

Roahn pivoted her aim as she saw one foolhardy mercenary make a dash towards her position. She gently squeezed the trigger and felt the welcome break as her finger pressed against the end of the guard. Her enemy's head burst apart in a mess of blood and shattered polymer, but something quite strange happened right afterward. The low gravity of the moon caused his body to slowly topple down as though he was underwater. The brutal cold had also frozen the blood that had jetted out from his shattered skull—red sheets were now tumbling in broken panes only to break apart like glass on the ground.

Another breath from Roahn as she purged her memory of the ghastly sight. She shifted her aim and focused on another one.

Again she fired. Again she was on target. Another mercenary spun around, his rib cage opened up like he had just been unraveled. More and more of Dark Horizon's forces were falling from the savage assault. Their bodies stuttered and stalled, frozen statues that pierced the landscape. Blood splatters froze in midair like melted rubies—if it managed to retain its warmth by the time it hit the ground, the blood would actually bounce only to finally succumb to the dark and the cold.

"Go!" she roared to the ones who had fallen behind—Skye and Korridon. They scrambled to their feet and dashed to the next clutch of rocks. Roahn took one more trooper out before she too continued her retreat.

Further ahead, Garrus had secured himself behind the rim of a small crater about a hundred meters away from the shuttle. He was liberal in his shot-taking, felling trooper after trooper while Shepard, who was next to him, provided close-range support with his pistol. The wearied commander was a bit slower on the uptake as he went from target to target, but his aim had not deteriorated in the slightest. Spent thermal clips began piling up around the two as their slides soundlessly slammed open, the lack of noise eerie.

Roahn felt weird as her loping gait made it seem like she was bounding across the surface of the moon. The ground passed by underneath her in a flat blur the color of refined steel. Her breathing, dry and deep, rasped into her ears, nearly deafening.

More and more soldiers, Dark Horizon and Alliance alike, were now beginning to spill from the edges of the valley, drawn to the conflict. Roahn waved a hand to ward off the Alliance soldiers, but they did not heed her signals, choosing instead to open fire upon her. She screamed out orders to cease fire, but she could not access their channels at all—they had cut her entire team off. To them, she was no better than the mercenaries. Just another enemy to vanquish.

_It's all falling apart_, she thought miserably.

A rocket streaked by her position and detonated in a fiery wave of pressure, throwing the quarian off her feet. She stumbled and fell, embarking into a roll that saw her skidding across the ground for several sections. She came to a stop on her back, head now spinning, beholden to watch the spray of bullets interject themselves between the stars overhead. Groggily, she turned herself back over on her stomach, retrieving her rifle from where she had dropped it. Prone, she squeezed several short bursts at the soldiers overhead—more and more shots sang by her head, puncturing the ground all around her. Roahn howled in the face of the terrible danger and she saw through her scope the bodies of Alliance soldiers fall to her shots, one after the other.

Her three-pronged heartbeat felt like it was pushing needles deeper and deeper into the very muscle. Roahn lay on the ground in a half-daze, muscle actions automatically assuming command as her shock-saturated brain temporarily ceded its will. With every soldier she killed, she dug her grave further. But she could not stop. They would just… not… stop. The lines had been drawn and they could no longer be erased.

She had a job to do. Protect her team. Her friends. If others had to die to see her mission accomplished, then so be it.

Rising to her feet, Roahn gave a silent snarl as she let the encroaching forces have it. Rifle billowing with light, vibrations chattering up her arm, she resigned herself to her own private damnation.

* * *

Glimmers of crystalline beams flickered by the gaunt exoskeleton of the Cardinal, shattering stone and metal all around her form. Red-hot bits of debris smashed against the ovular shield that encompassed her body, creating liquid ripples around the pod-like field. An explosion bloomed in the background. Screams of the dying billowed in the helmets of those that lay at her orbiting feet.

The Cardinal seemed to _breathe_ in the vacuum. A shudder of pleasure. Whatever electrical impulse left within her ruined nervous system that could satisfy such base cravings coursed through her. Water billowing from a congested dam.

She watched members on her side, on the opposing side, hopelessly wheel around, completely lost. Her own immobile form was a beacon, an icon for the mapless. Coddled by dark and bitter cold, the Cardinal slowly floated her way towards the greatest concentration of Alliance soldiers, the sparking of their bullets across her shields acting as an irritant to her sensibilities. The arrogance to think that they could even so much as scratch her. _Her!_ She was the Cardinal! Her sovereign's most trusted herald! These nuisances shall be dealt with.

Lowering herself to the ground calmly, the Cardinal suddenly erupted into a multi-legged form as every one of her limbs dropped down and clawed at the dirt and ice, propelling her forward with only a ferocity that would rival Raucous'. Her unreadable face was its own star dimly reflected on the face of the chalk surface of the very floor she tore up. A construct of inorganic plates and shielding all concentrated around this one mote, this singular light in the very center of her head. It was beautiful and terrible all at once.

Her prey always realized this too late.

Launching herself into the air, the Cardinal used her rearward thrusters to propel herself back down to the surface. A cluster of six Alliance soldiers huddled in a circular formation over a small ridge, completely unaware of her arrival. A shame for them. The cyborg landed with a heavy thump, enough to nearly cause everyone to lose their footing. The soldiers all pinwheeled for a split-second as they suddenly realized who had just appeared in the middle of their group.

But the Cardinal was already in motion.

Quicker than the blink of an eye, the Cardinal ducked and spun out her rearward arms in a wide arc, slashing them as far as she could reach. Her arms closed upon each other like scissors, bladed forearms passing easily through armor and flesh. In the next second, she came to a standstill, only the wisp of dust and ice left streaming from her arms as proof that anything was still moving.

What happened next all passed in a terrifying silence. There was a simultaneous streaming sound that wisped from all six men—a slow and subtle sigh, almost. All at once, each of the soldiers' knees buckled and collapsed, causing them all to fall. But as they fell, they came apart at nearly the exact same moment. Bisected cleanly at the waist, the six soldiers became twelve pieces as they finally settled upon the frozen ground, the last bit of blood that had not yet been chilled momentarily leaking from their torn halves. Cut off at the waists, legs without owners formed a macabre tangle while the suddenly detached torsos seemed to create a startled and pained tableau, as if none of the Cardinal's victims had even realized that they had died.

As she stood tall amongst her victims, the Cardinal then whirled indignantly as a sudden burst of machine gun fire ripped across her shields. An Alliance trooper had seen the horrendous display and was now laying into her with all the power his weapon had.

"You monster!" he howled as he struggled to contain his weapon on full-auto. "What _are_ you?! What—are—y—?"

With a speed that seemed to rip a hole in the universe, the Cardinal shot forward, limbs extended, not stopping until the soldier had been impaled through the neck. Twice. Fierce jets of blood sprayed out before dropping down in a thick rain.

"Merely an envoy," the Cardinal hissed, right before she messily ripped her limbs from the soldier's neck, "to silence."

As if they were being trapped in a schizophrenic zoetrope, the cream-white limbs slashed their way free from the man, bringing about an explosion of blood and viscera that scattered its way to and fro under the gaze of a tortuous strobe.

The rest of the Alliance soldiers had turned to face her by now, all alarmed at the speed and efficiency with how she had dispatched their brothers-in-arms. _How sweet, drawn by their comradeship_, the Cardinal thought. Her internal software picked up at least a dozen weapons in the process of being pointed right in her direction. A comforting thought, partly because now she knew she had their attention. Time to wrap this up.

Before any of the soldiers could pull their trigger to launch their assault on the cyborg, the Cardinal savagely lunged her six arms forward and a spray of sickly-green particulates hurled from the tips of her limbs in a noxious mist. The flecks, precisely crafted molecules of polonium, moved through the air, unimpeded by the low temperatures or gravity. They embarked in a wide spread, like how a shotgun's rounds perform. A good chunk of the toxic molecules missed the men, but regardless, every one of them was quickly hit from the nearly invisible cloud.

Satisfied with herself, the Cardinal folded her arms in front of her chest. She only needed to watch now.

The first death happened in seconds. The first Alliance soldier near the back doubled over, their weapon slowly slipping from their grip. The Cardinal tilted her head, the closest she could manage to a gesture of humor. She could see, by the way the human appeared to be retching, that the inside of his visor was completely covered in thick black gore. Not surprising, considering that such an amount of absorbed radiation like that was causing him to uncontrollably throw up pieces of his disintegrating digestive system. Organ failure had already begun—pieces of the brain would die off in the next few seconds. Loss of motor control would be simultaneous with this cascading development. The reaction had begun, there would be no stopping it.

One after another, the members of the Alliance team fell to the ground, wetly coughing before rolling around in the most indescribable agony they could ever imagine. The Cardinal stood over the closest dying soldier, able to easily peer through the tinted faceplate of his helmet. The man was bleeding out of every orifice. His eyes were completely bright red, bleeding freely from his tear ducts. His nostrils and mouth were clogged with masses of black. His skin was also the color of decay, nearly rotting off his bones.

Diseased cells in the humans could finally take no more and they simply came apart, the decayed DNA within having withered down to shredded nubs of dispersed amino acids. Around the cyborg, several humans in various states of liquefaction sagged. Behind their helmets, their features took on lumpy shapes, the underlying structure compromised, the fluids within in the process of messy evacuation.

"One more disruption quelled," the Cardinal spoke as the last soldier took his final, shuddering breath, a deity to the torture and misery that she had inflicted. "The Tranquility grows ever closer."

* * *

A line of concentrated fire suddenly erupted the ground in front of Roahn, throwing her off her balance. She had to dig her heels into the ground so that she could find enough purchase to leap behind a nearby dune for safety. The rocky knoll popped as bullets from the PMC's suppressive fire routinely pounded it. Crushed ice and rock rained down upon the quarian, snagging in the fabric threads of her _sehni_. Several times she tried to maneuver around to lay off a couple of potshots, but the enemies were too numerous. She could not get the chance to fire back!

"_Maneuvering in geosynchronous orbit_," Sagan's voice resonated through her comms. "_Reacquiring contact in forty-five seconds._"

Blindly, she lifted her rifle above the rim of the hillside and clenched down on the trigger, letting the recoil of the weapon dictate the aim. A terrible habit, but it had the desired effect of warding off any mercenaries who had wandered too close.

Then Roahn's weapon decided all on its own to have a breakdown. One of the heat sinks, automatically designed to eject upon absorbing too much thermal energy, failed to clear the slide after its forceful removal, lodging half-inside the guts of the weapon.

Roahn cursed and yanked at her weapon to clear the jam. In the middle of her maintenance, she could spot her father and Garrus near the shuttle, doing their damnedest to plug away at the entire army they had attracted. She was several dozen meters further from the transport than they were—a coverless steppe stretched before her. If she ventured out there, she would certainly be killed. Those bullets would drain her shields in seconds and then she'd be easy pickings for any crack shot Dark Horizon had happened to bring along.

There was movement to her right and left. Roahn instinctively reached for her pistol at her side before she had to force herself to relax the inclination. It was only Skye and Korridon, both breathless after making their last jump to safe cover. The quarian was between them both in the middle of this piece of lowlands—either one of her friends was at her flanks, trying to huddle themselves behind anything that would screen them from enemy view.

Korridon's rifle lay in pieces at his feet—a stray bullet had ripped a quarter of it away, rendering it useless. Weaponless, the turian's body language told Roahn that he was completely terrified as he struggled to push himself into a little crack in the side of the small rock wall his back was already against.

Skye was not faring much better. She was in a decent enough position to provide some cover fire, but there were too many of Dark Horizon's forces that were encroaching too closely—her sniper rifle was unwieldy and ill-suited at this range to take care of them all.

Both Skye and Korridon happened to notice Roahn at the same time, trapped all alone like they were. Stuck in between them both, weathering the storm on the barest scrap of shelter she had left.

They screamed at her all at once, rifle fire partially drowning out their voices.

"Roahn!" was Skye's cry as a curtain of dust momentarily collapsed over her head. "Get me out of here! Help me!"

"Roahn!" Korridon yelled as the rock wall exploded all around him. "I can't… they're too many! I need covering fire!"

The crushing weight of her entire psyche threatened to come down in a collapsing rush upon Roahn. Between her allies, her friends, there was a distinct tugging at both ends of her body. Free to move, yes, but also endlessly trapped. Trapped behind this hill. Trapped in her head.

Skye and Korridon were still screaming at her, begging for her to come over and save one of them. Roahn could see their failing shields on her readout steadily drop lower and lower. Time was of the essence. She could rescue one of them, she was sure of it. But the both of them… she pushed aside those consequences for now.

Now it seemed ironically clear to her how her father must have felt on Virmire. Torn between one life or the other. How he had made his decision, she would never be completely certain. Gut instinct, she figured. No time for logic. Did he feel powerful or impotent back then, knowing he held the weight of a single life in his hand? It was a terrible burden, far heavier than the artifact she carried on her shoulders, heavier than anything she had carried before.

"Roahn!" Skye cried. "Roahn, please!"

"Roahn!" Korridon roared before he held up his arms to protect his head as a close volley dislodged a few precarious boulders on the ledge above him, spilling them in his direction. "Roahn! Shields are nearly down! Where are you?!"

With a deep breath, Roahn twisted herself around, readying to spring out. She had one smoke grenade that she had carried along for this mission. It was now in hand, her thumb already preparing itself over the activation switch. She looked to one side of the valley and then the other. Skye or Korridon. The woman who loved her or the man who would lead her to Aleph. The veil of tracer rounds from Dark Horizon streaked all around her position, blowing off bit by bit of cover, eroding it away.

_I'm sorry_, Roahn bemoaned as she bent her head towards the ground, eyes closed in regret. The smoke grenade in her hand arced away in a lazy bow. A thick exhaust cloud erupted from the device while it was still in midair. _I'm sorry_.

In the next instant, mouth tangled in an enraged snarl, she pushed off with her feet, exploding from behind the hill before the smoke could obscure her view. She heard Skye and Korridon both gasp over the comms. Her rifle, cleared and back to working condition, savagely bucked in her hands with muffled bellows of its own. Dark Horizon troopers toppled to the ground on the ridges above, their chests momentarily bursting with red puffs as Roahn's volley cut them all down. She made a sweeping cut with her aim, felling at least seven mercenaries before her low-gravity assisted glide brought her to the edge of the valley.

To Korridon.

"What are…" the turian seemed shocked that she had come to save him first. "You're here?"

"We need you if we're going to put this artifact to use," Roahn gritted as she unhooked her pistol and flipped it to the turian. "Defend yourself."

"Roahn, I have to let you know that—"

"Save it." Roahn tried not to let the emotion infect her voice as she turned around, now barely able to spot Skye huddled in her own hidey-hole at the other edge of the basin. Farther away and even more out of reach.

Roahn's heart was nearly cleaved in two as she could see the barrel of Skye's rifle drop downward, its owner having gone slack in disbelief. The human's visor was polarized but it was a remarkably simple affair for Roahn to imagine the surprise and most likely horror as she processed the breadth of this small betrayal. Did Skye truly believe that Roahn would put kinship over duty? Or did she never even know Roahn at all?

Skye's feet stumbled as the woman numbly got to her feet. Her head poked up from the rim of the ledge. Roahn saw the danger crest the lip of the valley behind the human and tried to shout a warning.

"Roahn…" Skye thickly mumbled, her head minutely shaking in the quarian's direction.

"Skye…" Roahn whispered, eyes opened wide.

"Why would—"

A fragile beam of light, the lingering heat cascading from a finely honed bullet, slammed into Skye's chest, crashing through the abused shields with ease. There was a burst of sparks and a meaty punch of dust and fragmented rock. The woman uttered a gasp of surprise right as her weapon involuntarily left her fingers, falling a foot for the edge of the scratched barrel to collide upon the frigid ground, eager to beat its owner upon that fateful spot.

She crumpled.

In the lower corner of Roahn's HUD, a heartbeat flatlined. Savage mountain ranges stretched into infinite plains. No loud wail to indicate the presence of an asystole resounded in her helmet. Just the taunting silence to accompany the image of the still body, so far away, lying prone on the ice.

"_No!" _Roahn screamed as she leapt to her feet, aghast. Smoke continued to wisp around her, nearly liquid in the absence of wind. Pain lanced through her as though it had been her that had gotten shot. "No, no!"

She tried to run over to Skye's body, but there was a firm yank on her arm. Korridon had fastened his hand around her wrist, frantically shaking his head.

"She's gone, Roahn!" he yelled. "Skye's _gone!_"

"I can't leave her behind!" she shouted in his face. She wrested her arm free with a ferocious wrench and made the sprint back across the valley, ignoring the cries from Korridon and her commanding officer.

Korridon stumbled after her, body cradled by the thick tendrils that lingered from the smoke grenade. He saw the quarian make it back to her original cover spot, smack-dab in the middle of the lowlands, less than a dozen meters away. He mustered to get over to where she was—she was not paying him any attention anymore.

"Roahn!" he called, pistol numbly clenched in a fist. "Roahn!"

Just as the quarian finally turned back, an empty look resplendent in her eyes, a grenade round sailed through the cloud of vapor, tender sparks trailing in its wake. It hit the ground between them and detonated, erupting in a billowing hemisphere of pressure and momentary light. Roahn was thrown through the air, towards the shuttle, her thoughts blank and dazed, and landed in battered heap. Korridon had been propelled through the smoke with a cry and disappeared as the mist consumed his body, shards of rock slashing through the cloud along with him.

Roahn coughed as she struggled to get back up, a powerful headache slamming her skull. Her throat felt parched, like she had been burned. Her shields fizzled around her body—they had been overloaded from the blast and were in the process of recharging. She looked around for her rifle, realizing that she must have dropped it in all the confusion.

"Korr?" she mumbled as she fought to get her bearings back, no longer concerned with reaching Skye's body. "Korr, sound off!"

There was no answer. No sound. Even the rasping crackle of gunfire had died down. The silence seemed absolute.

The curling smoke then parted to reveal the unnatural contours of the Cardinal, her head a blue sun that cut through the murky nebula of vapor. From the sooty sheets, she lifted an arm, dragging what it held out to be viewed by all. A metal clamp of a limb had been fastened around Korridon's neck, who was choking and gasping in his helmet, hands uselessly clawing at the appendage that contained him.

"_Korr_," Roahn mumbled, already succumbing to shock and terror.

The Cardinal laughed, answering in the turian's stead. "So it has a name," she cackled. "_Good_. That will only make it all the more painful."

Vents upon the Cardinal's back hissed, flooding the valley floor with more shapeless fumes. With a final laugh, the Cardinal stepped backwards into the smoke, the restrained Korridon reaching out a helpless hand to Roahn, his heels furiously digging in the ground deep enough to leave massive trenches.

"Korr!" Roahn cried as she raced forward to grab his hand, casting the danger aside. But just as her own metal fingers were inches from Korridon's, the smoke closed around him in a frantic sigh. Her hand clenched upon empty air—thick smog bled between her fingers.

Roahn threw her head back and howled towards the dark stretch of space, mouth locked open in rage. She spat wordless noises, esoteric curses, that she manipulated and crafted into her own weapons of hate. Of an impotent anger so immense that she was close to having it break right out of her. First Skye. Now Korridon. If only she could smash her fist down upon the ice-coated ground of this cursed moon and be able to crack it in half down to its frozen core. If only she could reach across time and space and rip out the diseased heart that belonged to Aleph. Perhaps then could this galaxy finally realize the terror they were in danger of unleashing upon themselves. The scourge that would display the full might at what a coddled and passionate hatred could exert upon this sorry existence that was her life.

She was about to charge her way in, damn the fact that she lacked any firearms, before two hands strongly grabbed at her shoulders. Roahn twisted and turned, continually howling "_No! No!_" but Garrus was not listening to her. The quarian knew deep down that his deliberate ignorance was borne out of a loving care and not a detached indifference. She still wanted to break his face though, for forcing her abandonment.

Still continuing to struggle, Roahn repeatedly roared her pledge to the empty battlefield to rescue Korridon, Garrus hauling her back to the shuttle in his stoic silence. The PMC had left, along with the Cardinal. The remaining Alliance forces had been wiped out in their departure. The smoke from the cyborg's body still lingered upon the plain, obscuring the entrance to the base as well as where Skye's body had fallen.

The battlefield now erupted with explosion after explosion. Red, white, and blue tones tumbling together in a percussive phenomena. The _Menhir_ was back overhead, providing cover for their retreat. The light of the detonations momentarily overwhelmed the surviving Umbra crew, silhouetting the shape of the struggling Roahn in Garrus' arms upon the launch pad.

Once she had been restrained inside the shuttle, Roahn disabled her vocabulator so that her keening moans could only be heard by her. Her hands threatened to rip out the restraints that were now rattling as the shuttle's engines ignited and quickly propelled it from the thin atmosphere.

_Skye… I never told you…_

…_and Korr. Korr._

Her resounding scream, condensed all around her head, tore at her like an eager scavenger willing to pick at her bones. She filled herself with the noise of her own despair, feeding it further and further as she yelled until her voice went hoarse.

She was all alone.

As it was meant to be.

* * *

**A/N: I certainly had a time trying to get this chapter to completion, let me tell you. I was in the process of building a new PC these last couple of weeks and had started on a section of this chapter when the power supply in my new computer developed a fault and unexpectedly fried the motherboard, deleting all the additions I had made to this chapter at the time. Fortunately, the bulk of the chapter had been saved elsewhere and I was able to finish it up, although I did have to rewrite one particular section from scratch, which as you could imagine, was quite annoying. **

**Once I recover my original chapter, I might come back and see if I can possibly take any passages from that draft and add them to this one, as I thought I had some decent work done on that first pass-through.**

**Playlist:**

**Landing/Dark Horizon Encounter**  
**"Fight Your Way Through"**  
**Joris de Man**  
**Killzone 2 (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Stealing the Artifact**  
**"Get Out"**  
**Patrick Doyle**  
**Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Ice Battle (Pt. I - Bombardment)**  
**"Cemetery Wind"**  
**Steve Jablonsky**  
**Transformers: Age of Extinction (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Ice Battle (Pt. II - Skye)**  
**"Launch"**  
**Hans Zimmer**  
**Man of Steel (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	27. Chapter 27: Dark Ember

"_Turns out grenades in the future happen to work better in a spherical form, rather than disc."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Menhir__  
Engineering_

The timeworn artifact, encased in a purple-tinged bubble of transparent energy, looked more like a trinket meant to be spurned to the recesses of a storage locker rather than be vaunted and worshipped for its true purpose as a decisive piece of some fustian doomsday device. It floated a few inches above the desk, miniature grav-emitter right below it. Innocuous enough for people to take only a fleeting glance at in in abject fascination before dropping it from their minds. Only those who knew its true purpose let its presence darkly take up residence. They could not afford to be so oblivious.

Liara swept away some of the stray datapads that cluttered up the desk—Korridon's desk. She stacked them neatly before placing them upright in a corner. Sam, watching the asari tidy up, had to turn away for a moment. It seemed wrong to be going through the belongings of a lost crewmember. The deck here seemed remarkably empty without Korridon around—his possessions, small in number though they might be, had been left in their own esoterically organized heap like their owner was expecting to come back and bring order to the chaos in due time.

But would that owner ever return? Was that still a possibility? No one seemed willing to make the official call. KIA or MIA. An easy report to file, but hesitancy was a virus that had begun spreading like wildfire ever since Triton. Korridon had been last seen, after all, in the grip of the Cardinal, still alive. He could not be dead until his body could be ascertained. A cold truth, one that necessitated a strong and unyielding mind but everyone had still been shaken from the events of last mission. There were still lingering doubts that everyone could still be objective in their roles.

Sam had detected something was wrong ever since he had listened in on Garrus' first transmission when the turian had boarded the shuttle on the moon to head straight back to the ship. There had been a weariness in the captain's tone. Resilient but… tested. The first indication that something had transpired against the main plan. Watching from the cargo bay floor, he witnessed only three disembark from the Kodiak.

Three, when five had originally ventured out.

There had been no words for Sam to say. His vocabulary was nowhere near as prolix as what the situation required. All he could do was watch as a remorseful Roahn quickly walked past him towards the elevator, her loping steps carrying a tormented weight, one that drew her chin low to the ground. She did not even make eye contact with him. She had disappeared behind the shaft's doors, ostensibly having retreated to her cabin where no one could reach her.

Skye dead. Korridon missing. The fact that Garrus had managed to retrieve the artifact from the moon was of little comfort. Two lives had been traded for this lump of metal and no one on this ship had any idea if such a tradeoff could be remotely close to being worth it.

The doctor felt for Roahn, knowing the quarian's relationship with the lieutenant. He had tried not to be too nosy on the subject but he could at least see that there had been a steadfast and easily stoked attraction between the two. To have that all ripped away… to say that Sam knew heartbreak was an understatement. No doubt Roahn felt like the ground had just been ripped underneath her feet. She was now tumbling in the darkness, lost and disoriented.

The door to engineering suddenly opened and Garrus, followed by Shepard, filed through. They both had dark looks on their faces. Weary and battered from battle, they were barely able to stand on their own energy. Sam silently kicked out a chair for Shepard to take—the former commander was limping. Shepard accepted the offered chair with a silent nod and gave a grateful exhale upon settling into it.

"Just finished sending our casualty report to the Council," Garrus scratched at a mandible in agitation. "Took a bit longer than I anticipated."

"What'd you tell them?" Sam inquired, hand on his chin in a thoughtful manner.

"That, while successful, things on Triton devolved into a complete shit-show. Lieutenant Lorne's personal effects are to be sent to her next of kin the first chance we get. We'll… uh… have to petition the Alliance to retrieve her body from the moon. They're not going to like that we were even there to begin with."

"And Korridon?" Sam's eyes flashed to the now-neat desk that Liara had just finished organizing, spick and span except for the artifact lazily rotating on its axis in mid-air upon it.

"He's officially considered 'Missing in Action,'" was Garrus' grim reply. "But we might have to accept the fact that his status will change for the worse. We've seen how Dark Horizon treats its prisoners."

Sam shook his head, closing his eyes solemnly to hold back his distress. "Fuck it all. The guy didn't deserve a fate like that."

"He was a part of Umbra," Garrus defended. "He knew the risks when he signed up."

"Bullshit," Sam hotly objected. "He wasn't expendable. For what it's worth, he probably thought he was invincible, being around all of you. But he was onto something with these things," he gestured to the artifact, "and he was so close—_so close_—to figuring out the missing piece that would help solve everything. But now you're nearly about to write him off."

The turian took on an annoyed front, sapphire eyes turning frosty while long and limber fingers grew rigid in agitation.

"Don't act like I think you are all just items on a balance sheet. Like I only consider to you to be a number to me. A value. If that's how you seriously think I—"

"It doesn't matter what I think." The doctor's hands clenched tightly around nothing. "It just sounds like you're already cushioning yourself against any bad news you wouldn't want to hear."

The armored turian's eyes narrowed and he took a step closer to Sam. "If you want to say something, _say it_, McLeod."

A worried Liara then tried to make her way between the two, hands pushing at each other's chests, but the fueled men refused to budge.

"Come on, guys," Liara began to say as her head practically whipped back and forth, "don't do this now—"

Sam kept his gaze steadfastly locked onto the turian across from him, finding his grimaced expression eerily mirrored in Garrus'. "You really want me to say what I'm thinking? If you could even read my thoughts…"

"Why don't you humor me?"

"If you insist," Sam growled. The broad-shouldered human squared his stance, a tired violence held back in a distant stare. "Why the fuck are we even here, Vakarian? I don't mean here—on this ship, and I don't mean for you to answer that question because you already _know_ the answer. What are we? Casual foot soldiers? No. We're certainly not mercenaries in this for a paycheck. You wanted this—wanted _us_—to be something special. To be not just a crew to you… but to be the _Menhir_ crew, Umbra Team! You wanted that name to mean something! We put something in, only fair for us to get something out. Give our service to your cause… and all we might ask for is a little _loyalty_. Something to assure us that you will always have our back."

"I… _have_… always had your back," the turian growled, his frame pushing in agitation upon Liara's hand keeping him in place. "This was to be something for _all_ of us to be proud of, not just me."

"Those two missing bunk spaces would say otherwise. One dead, another damned to the same fate. _Really_ something for us to be proud of, there."

"I would not leave any of you behind!" Garrus uttered. A new edge had crept into his voice now, a razing coldness that burned far brighter than any inferno could hope to muster. It was a sound that instilled an intrinsic terror into those within earshot, except for Sam who was oblivious to the implication. "Don't even think that I would do something like that! I had to evacuate what was left of the squad! It was too dangerous to mount a rescue—we didn't have the personnel!"

"I'm sure that will be of a lot of comfort to Korridon," the doctor tipped his head tauntingly. "_Or_ Skye. Words are cheap, Garrus. Think that's going to help your conscience?"

Liara now looked hopelessly to Shepard, who had been sitting in his chair the whole time, plaintively staring at the two incensed individuals. His hand was at his mouth, covering, as his calm eyes slowly swept from person to person. Studying. Absorbing. Listening.

The asari nearly cried at Shepard to do something, to say anything to dissolve this fractious discourse. But it was something in his eyes that made her hold off. A critical moment apparently had yet to transpire.

Garrus was trying to keep his temper in check as he grabbed the grav-disc that held the Reaper artifact in its weightless prison. He jabbed it at Sam, as if daring the human to pluck it from his fingers. "Then _you_ put that doctorate to work and figure out where Dark Horizon took Korridon, Sam. Because this… _thing_ is the only link to finding him and we don't have anyone left to decipher the code! Do you think I can just pull intel out of my ass? That I could simply make a few calls to a few admirals or councilors and suddenly figure out what our next move is going to be? That's not how this works! We all went into this knowing full well that our plan is undefined! Unfocused! Shit, we never even had a clear enemy to start with!"

Sam's eyes had been tracking the artifact in Garrus' hand, never quite paying full attention to his words.

"Do… you really think that a doctorate is somehow interchangeable between professions?" Sam asked incredulously, but there was an impish slight to his speech that ticked off the turian to no end. Mostly because Garrus knew that Sam was asking this stupid question on purpose just to get him riled up. And damn him, it was working. "Because I have some news for you that I'm the wrong—"

"I was being sarcastic!"

"Really. Which part?"

Garrus looked like he was about to strangle the doctor right here in this room. He had to rake a clawed hand across his own face after setting the artifact back down, careful not to nudge his eyepiece, to bring him back some semblance of control.

"Spirits help me," he said out loud. "I'm _trying_ to make you see my point of view here. I mean, what do you want me to do? Make a speech? Come up with a brilliant plan all by my own? I'm not _like_ this man here." Garrus swept a hand towards Shepard, who was still seated appraisingly, one leg casually folded on top of the other.

Sam pulled a face and looked from the former commander to Garrus. "I figured that was evident?"

The turian's rear jaw clamped together so tightly he felt that he was going to crack bone. "What did you say?" he whispered.

"I mean…" Sam maddingly gave a shrug as his eyes flicked over to Shepard. "You're right. You're _not_ him."

But he had finally gone too far. Garrus' fist uncontrollably reared back and suddenly shot back out before anyone knew what was happening. Armored knuckles sailed past Liara's face and bashed against Sam's nose in a reactionary blow. The doctor had been completely unprepared for the attack. He was propelled completely around and toppled heavily to the ground.

Now Shepard jumped to his feet and immediately put himself between the turian and the doctor. "Easy, big guy," he said forcefully as he pushed his friend away. "That's enough from you."

Liara knelt down to help Sam up. Dark fluid spattered the ground near his head. The doctor rose, a hand clutching his nose, stemming the flow of blood that spilled past his fingertips. His eyes carried a tiredness, having been stunned at the unexpected surge of anger that he had managed to derive from the turian.

"You all right?" Liara asked him.

"Nose is broken," Sam gritted, trying hard not to wince. "I'll live."

In Shepard's grip, Garrus suddenly gave a stir as if he had just awoken from a deep trance. He relaxed his shoulders, prompting Shepard to ease off on restraining him. The turian tentatively stepped forward, arm outstretched.

"Crap, Sam… I shouldn't have—"

"_Leave it_," Sam hissed as he shied away from the turian's hand. "I gotta go fix this."

And then he was gone, leaving a steady red trail of scarlet drops in his wake. Liara looked like she was about to run after him but relented after seeing the pained look Garrus gave.

Defeated, the turian sagged into a nearby chair, his face numb and blank. "I'm losing control. We're all falling apart and I'm only making things worse."

He let his head rest in his hands for a few minutes while Liara and Shepard stood by, neither one of them wanting to interject on the turian's ruminations.

"The sad thing is, he was right," Garrus then said.

Shepard tilted his head. "About what?"

"Damn near everything. He knew which buttons to push and he went there. It's not like I don't _want_ to find my crew. If I could figure out, with only the barest shred of proof to guide my path, exactly where Korridon was… I'd wheel this ship right about and head full speed in that direction. But I can't, because I have _nothing_. It's like Sam said. I only have words… and they aren't worth anything!"

A somber silence fell upon the room. Shepard's hand now went to Garrus' back, a few brotherly pats providing the barest semblance of reassurance. In some way, perhaps Garrus was expecting one of his friends to chime in, to offer their point of view on the matter in a way for him to begin his own process of healing. But no one offered anything. Were they as lost in the darkness as he was or were they trying to give him his own space, his own time, to figure out how to be his own man for once?

The answers would not come so easily. Garrus lifted the eyepiece away from his head, leaving both of his eyes bare for the time being. He set the device on his lap as he agonizingly scratched at his facial carapace, breath raw and torturously long in his throat.

Liara walked over to the desk and nudged at the base of the artifact's disc. She cleared her throat before speaking. "Korridon was looking for a specific radiation trail that he thought would lead us to Aleph. It isn't my area of expertise, but I'll run some tests of my own, see what I can come up with."

"Fine," Garrus said thickly. "Maybe some progress can be made there."

After Liara had left with the artifact, there was a screeching noise of metal on metal as Shepard dragged another chair over so that he could sit in front of his friend. The human gave a soft groan as tormented joints creaked to allow him to get into a comfortable position. His fingers gave tender flexes, trying to stymie the arthritic pains that would occasionally flare up now and again. Yet his face betrayed no agony, only a quiet contemplation.

Garrus folded his hands together, the sounds of clenching finger joints indicating the few cracks in the turian's usual stoicism. "You always said that if I needed an ear, you'd be there."

"That I did," Shepard agreed.

"So tell me _what to do_," Garrus begged, hands now upturned and empty. "What am I doing wrong, Shepard? How can I stop this ship from tearing itself apart?"

Shepard took a long moment as he glanced from Garrus' hands to his face. Then, incredibly, he shook his head. "I'm afraid this is the one time that I won't be able to help, my friend."

"What do you mean?" Garrus was dumbstruck. "What are you talking about?"

"Garrus, I'm on the same page as you. All the information I have, you have as well. Believe me when I say that there's nothing else I can give you that can somehow lead us in the right direction."

The turian erupted into a series of low chuckles as he rubbed his hands, now too overcome to look his friend in the eye. "They couldn't get you. The Council, I mean. That's what all this was about, you know? The Council _knew_ that there was no way that they could get Commander Shepard to lead their new team, to helm their shiny new ship. No, he was _retired_, off on Rannoch to spend the remainder of his years. Well, you could imagine their pleasant surprise when it turned out I got him to sign up to Umbra after all, though not in the capacity that they might have initially sought. But still… Commander Shepard in the flesh. The man who saved the galaxy, returned to the forefront. That alone was enough to alleviate any scrutiny that might have come upon our team. _Don't tell me_ you don't know what to do. You've always known! That's how you united all the species, got them to create the biggest fighting force in this galaxy's history! You won the most important war for every single species!"

Shepard flatly looked at him while Garrus proceeded to wring his wrists.

"You _should_ know…" the turian continued to mumble. "You _always _had the answers."

It was only after Garrus' words trailed off with a sense of finality did Shepard finally lean forward. He gently placed a hand on his friend's armored knee, keeping his eyes firmly levelled, his touch delicate but his gaze brimming with intent. Garrus nearly recoiled to escape his friend's grasp, but he shoved the inclination down as one would when swallowing.

"What I _had_," Shepard said softly, "was the best people surrounding me during that time. You. Tali. Liara. Joker. A literal dream team. A crew of no other. Even then, I was never expected to come up with all the answers. Others were there to pick up where I faltered. It was simply my job to listen."

The one-eyed veteran snuck a smile through his crazed snarl of his graying beard.

"Your questions are hoping to reach the man I once was during the war," he continued. "That person doesn't exist anymore. I'm just 'Shepard' to you, my friend, and to everyone else. I'm no longer the soldier I was back in my prime. Or even during that terrible Chimera business, for that matter. I've put that all behind me." He then smiled as he tilted his head. "The 'Commander' had his time. I've ended that part of my life for good. Nothing's ever going to bring that out again. The Council _knew_ that, which is why they never bothered asking for me. Instead, they probably got the best person they could for the job."

Garrus murmured a tired laugh. "I think you're just saying that to be nice."

"Does that have to be mutually exclusive to the truth?"

In all actuality, Garrus would have liked to have said 'yes' to that in order to secure any foothold in this little dialogue of theirs, but to do so would not accomplish anything and would only aggravate all parties further in the end.

"I just…" Garrus sighed, his own way of concession. "All I can see before me are the people who paved the way for me to be here. I'm constantly living under a shadow, one that I can't escape, Shepard. It isn't your fault. There's no one to blame for my failing. I just can't help but feel… there's a threshold that I have to reach. To live up to an untold expectation. You can understand that, can't you?"

A tender beat passed. The lights of the deck seemed to waver, accentuating the gnarled scar tissue on the side of the turian's face.

"I'm in a replica of your ship," Garrus continued. "I sleep where your cabin was. Everything this team has been was modeled on what you started. The precedent that I need to follow. And still it's not enough. I haven't even gotten close to what you've accomplished. There was always a plan with you. Always a course to take. And I've been at your side for nearly the whole time. Why can I not figure out the next step?"

Shepard had been frozen, kindly looking at his friend as he had listened to him talk. With a nearly imperceptible gesture, he waved his hand so that the lights in their corner of the deck slowly dimmed. They were now nearly completely doused in darkness. The human scooted to the edge of his chair, leaning forward so that his elbows nearly met his knees, hands folded in front of him as he brought himself in conspiratorially close to his best friend. The stray bits of light caught the fringes of Shepard's beard. It looked like the side of his face was on fire.

"Being in command is never easy," the man murmured. "I don't think I understood the ramifications of what it meant, either, even after I was handed the reins of the _Normandy_. At first you think you're invincible, like you and your crew have the ability to take down anything in your path. But then life throws you a few twists and turns to keep you in check. The Collectors… for instance."

"Omega for me…" Garrus said grimly.

Shepard answered with a grave nod. He remembered the aftermath of the brutal massacre that his friend was referring to. The tail end of Garrus' vigilante activities, come to a halt when every single lowlife on a lawless and godforsaken rock was out for his head. Wounded, delirious from fatigue, his teammates savagely murdered, the turian had been teetering in a torrid haze for hours as he bunkered down and killed every hapless foe that had the misfortune to stumble into the sights of his rifle while being pinned down in a warehouse. It had taken a long while for the distant look to retreat from Garrus' eyes, but every now and then, it threatened to creep up without warning.

Right now was one of those moments.

"Garrus, being in command does not mean that you have to have all the answers. It just means that you have to be confident in your decisions."

"Confidence is something I could use a little bit of right now," Garrus gave a shaky laugh. "I'm about to lose my team if I don't find more soon."

A sympathetic smile came to Shepard's face. He grasped the turian's wrist reassuringly, which was limp in his grip.

"You haven't lost them yet. They're not even close to breaking away. You've surrounded yourself by so many smart people that they would walk through fire and the cold vacuum of space for you."

"You sound so sure of yourself," Garrus grated, his tone a bit more sarcastic than he had initially intended.

"'_Wise leaders generally have wise councilors because it takes a wise man to distinguish them_,'" Shepard retorted with a sly grin.

Garrus blinked and raised his hand a half-inch above his knee. "That from a vid… or something?"

"No. That was Diogenes."

"Never heard of him."

"I'm not surprised. Human philosopher. He was a rather… interesting man in life."

"If you say so," Garrus shrugged.

Shepard now reclined back in his chair, relief flitting over his features as if his previous position had worked up several knots in his back and shoulders. Garrus had the fleeting notion that he should reach out and provide a reassuring touch of his own to his friend, like he had just done mere minutes ago. It would be poignant. The loop having been closed.

"Can't deny he has a point," Shepard said as he flexed his fingers absentmindedly. "You also have a gifted set of people around you, as I did. Perhaps they might lead you to the course you're seeking, as you and everyone else once did for me when I was in command. Inspiration comes in many forms… and hell, it could come from Grunt, from Liara, from Sam, from Sagan, from Roahn—"

"Roahn!" Garrus sat bolt upright in his chair, the urge to smack himself in the forehead now taking on a tangible weight. "Spirits, how could I be so stupid? I haven't talked to her since we got back—she was _heartbroken_ after what happened to her friend. I'm an idiot. I need to see if she's—"

With a speed that managed to surprise both parties, Shepard stood to match his friend and planted both of his hands on Garrus' shoulders, keeping him in place. That brought out a fresh wince in the human—Garrus reared his head back in surprise for seeing his friend so pained.

"No," Shepard managed to get out, trying desperately to keep his voice sotto. "This is something you're better off leaving alone."

"What—I—" Garrus stammered, not understanding. "Your _daughter_ just went through a severe emotional agony, Shepard. As her captain, I need to check on her. See that she's doing all right."

Shepard refused to let go as he shook his head. "As her _captain_, that is your duty, yes. But as Roahn's _father_, I'm telling you that she has her own way of healing. This is something that you might not understand right now, but it's important for her to grieve in her own way before we bring her back."

"Take your word for it? We need her, Shepard. If I can help her at all—"

"—Then she'll ask for it," Shepard assured through gritted teeth, beard as white as a magnesium flash. "Trust me. If she wants your help, she will ask you for it. But until then, it's best to leave her alone."

Garrus levelled his stare, not completely sold yet. "Think she's going to completely heal?"

Shepard gave a quiet scoff. "Completely? We never heal completely, Garrus. We're all just scars in the end, my friend. Just scars."

* * *

_Executive's Cabin_

The glow from the holoscreen emitted a thin coating of electric warbling, a marbled luminescence that smeared across the walls in dull refractions of colors. Hung by nothing, the screen floated in front of a curved and polished surface, lightly chipped after eons-old bits of jagged rock and ice had impacted upon it. The screen's glimmering was reflected endlessly upon Roahn's mask, barely overtaking the own soft intensity that her own eyes emitted from beyond the hardened veil.

She was lying upon her bed on her back, spread-eagled. All muscles loose. Her enviro-suit, still stained with dust, left a gray trail upon the wrinkled blankets under her body. Gaze locked onto the screen that she had set for herself just overhead. Playing old memories. Old stories. There was no external audio—it was all being pumped to the speakers in her helmet.

The images in the video clips were absorbed without interpretation. Impacting without lingering. In one ear and out the other. They acted as a comfort to the quarian. The entire package being presented as a snapshot of days gone by. When everything had been, for lack of a better word, more _normal_. The faces depicted in them had been familiar, as were the settings. They showed her times when there had been nothing evil lurking on the horizon for her. When her problems could be confined within her own narrow sphere of existence. A selfish life.

The clips were unrelated and sped by at an unforgiving pace. All from the same time period, as could be denoted from the timestamps in the lower corner.

Defender Academy. The first few years of her soldierly training. A hodgepodge of amalgamated tactics and methods hastily thrown together all for the purpose of creating a unified fighting force. The time when her camaraderie with her peers would have reached an all-time high. Surrounded by people her own age, with similar ambitions, it was hard not to make friends.

The clips she now watched had been compiled from several different accounts of that time. The angles of the footage constantly bounced and jittered—this was deliberately done by the camera wielders in order to give the whole thing a documentary-like feel even though image stabilizers were commonplace technology by then.

One of the images appeared to her in a familiar flash. The stout corridor of an armory—ribbed and sturdily constructed out of unpolished steel, it looked more like the locker room of a gym instead of a place where the recruits kept their weapons. In a sense, it technically _was_ a locker room. Brimming with young, fresh-faced, and eager cadets of all races. The camera floated to each one of their faces in turn—some shyly smiled and turned away from the lens, others made exaggerated and graphic gesticulations for the hell of it, and some grabbed stray weapons to use as props while they mimicked gratuitous poses and raised warlike whoops.

"_Get some, Defenders!_" someone yelled off-camera.

"_One for the memories, Ansel Adams!_" another man shoved his face in as he made a "V" shape with his fingers before sticking his tongue through them.

Other voices joined the chorus.

"_Git yer head outta yer ass, Ransone!_"

"_Lean and mean, the Defender way, eh?"_

"_Who the fuck took my toothbrush?! Darryl? DARRYL! I know it was you, you dickless son of a—_"

The camera turned and whirled, the giveaway of an experienced avant-gardist or perhaps an unwieldy operator. Eventually, the focus settled as the holder guided its way to where a gaggle of quieter individuals were congregated upon a bench that bisected the hallway lengthwise. Five people—three of them human. The camera soaked up their features in turn. Most of them smiled, a couple waved.

The fourth person had striking eyes, a stare that could pierce from miles away. Red hair, the color of a fire underneath the bark of a tree trunk as it burned from the inside out.

A physical wrenching sensation suddenly manifested itself just beyond Roahn's ribcage. She could not take back the sob that forcefully blustered path her mouth as she looked at Skye's face once more. The human woman in the clips was younger than the mental image Roahn had built for herself, but there was still the same intensity that had enveloped the human's provoking presence. It could be discerned, even through this electronic barrier. The camera view then opened up to reveal that Skye had thrown an arm around the shoulders of the person next to her—Roahn—pulling her into frame.

The quarian looked at herself in the footage blankly. In that tiny window, she observed herself leaning into the one-armed hug the woman gave, doing her best to return the devotion in her stare that the human was now sending her way in spades. A fully-suited quarian being chummy with a supremely attractive human—if such a sight was considered odd none of the bystanders appeared to give such a concept any weight. Skye simply melded against Roahn's contours, hip against hip, while their fingers played with each other's. Sparks were clearly flying between them. It was cute reliving her antics, Roahn noted with a longing pang. It brought her back to the moment where things were simple and the future was bright. When everything lacked the veneer of destiny and one's eye could be turned inward without judgment, willing accepting of the myopia that greedily strangled all it came into contact with.

It was obvious that Skye was completely enamored with her back then, even by staring at this tiny little screen with such terrible resolution. The Roahn in the clip laughed at a jape Skye had made, the two friends both throwing their heads back slightly as they basked in the rapport and perhaps the secret trust they had for each other. For it had to be… yes, Roahn recounted that she must have been intimate with Skye by the time this footage was shot. Before the woman's misguided antics would lead her to betrayal.

"_Roahn… why would—_" Skye's last words lingered in Roahn's head, before the thunderclap of a rifle shot threatened to rip her from her memories.

The quarian had to turn off the feed. Her hands pressed against her mask, pressing forcefully against the barrier. Nearly enough to cave it in and to give her fingers easy access to her face. She writhed on the bed, jaw opening and closing in silent screams, boots kicking out and causing the sheets to spill in every direction.

_I'll never be able to tell you what you meant to me_, she thought miserably. Even her subconscious was darting around the truth, unwilling to open that particular door to her demons.

A dear friend. Gone. Abandoned. One of the most aggravating people she had ever met in her life, yet one whose love could be so fierce, so wild, that it could be overwhelming with its energy. Now Roahn would never be able to tap into that power again. To see that smile. Feel her skin.

_You came so close to knowing me. Keelah, I could have loved you._

A numbness came over her. An unpleasant feeling—drunkenness without the buzz. Imagined strobes of the overhead lamps were playing havoc with her vision. Her gut felt gnarled and twisted. Her throat was still scratchy, turned raw after she had been screaming in horror the entire shuttle ride back up from Triton. The tears on her face had long dried—she could not conjure more for her reserves had been exhausted.

After a while, Roahn found the strength to sit back up, breath coming in painful sniffles. She shuffled her feet off the bed and stood, using her hands to grasp at the desk for support.

The quarian was about to head over to the bathroom, perhaps to further confine herself to her solitude, when she noticed a curious little icon begin to rapidly blink in the corner of her HUD, next to the display for her biorhythms. It was the symbol for an incoming message, keyed directly to her omni-tool's channel, and it was on a high-frequency band, the kind used by military forces.

Before she could react, a three-pronged tone resounded in her ear. An abrupt connection.

_Wait, I didn't initiate—_

Roahn's world then seemed to explode in the next second.

A whining pitch, an electronic scream, blasted from her speakers in a tortuous wail. Her visor filled with clogging static, a snowfall that obscured her entire vision. Lights in her helmet went haywire and filled her nearly-blinded eyes with vivid pulsations. Roahn screamed and immediately clasped her helmet's temples, grabbing at her head as though she was about to tear her covering off. The noise! The light! Blind and nearly deaf, Roahn stumbled into the bathroom, bouncing into every wall until she finally tumbled into the shower stall, collapsed and helpless. She continued to howl, for the power surge that coursed through her suit felt like it was biting at her very body. Jolts down her spine. Teeth nipping at her eyeballs. Aches generated in every strand of muscle. Pain. _Pain_. PAIN!

Then a familiar voice spoke from her embedded speakers, almost as if it was projected into her very head.

"_**Your persistence in attempting to try my patience is commendable, but shortsighted. I have had the time to cultivate every facet of my plan, account for every contingency. Did you truly think that this would be able to halt my efforts?"**_

Roahn was not able to voice any intelligible retort to the question. Just a scream.

"_**Fortunately, I also have something that you want, so I wish to propose a trade. Call it a mutually beneficial exchange. The fragment you took from the moon, for the member of your crew that I have locked up on my ship. If you care about the people under your command, I trust you to make the right decision."**_

Through the digital murk, the static on Roahn's visor cleared up very slightly to give way to an image. The assault on Roahn's damaged senses backed off as well, leaving the quarian transfixed, breathing hard, as she could hopelessly stare at the video feed that was now being piped directly into her visor.

The feed was translucent, making the subject look like a ghost. But Roahn would be able to recognize Korridon anywhere. Only his top half was shown, an electronic muzzle had been placed over his mouth, and a dried rivulet of blood had wept down his face from a cut he had received.

But he was alive. _Alive_.

Roahn mouthed his name. And again. And again. Each time she tried to give voice to her friend's name but she was so hoarse she was unable to speak.

Korridon looked to be in a bad shape. His arms looked like they were restrained over his head, like he was hanging from his wrists, suspended in midair. He was unable to look directly into the camera, too disoriented or injured to pay attention to his surroundings. A sharp hiss, like a scalding iron, crackled in the background, spewing sparks to flicker momentarily in the image's forefront.

Then Roahn could see, out of the corner of the screen, a long and crane-like arm the color of bone suddenly reach out towards Korridon's face. The Cardinal. She was there, too. The cyborg's claw splayed the razor-sharp grapplers out to gently rest upon the turian's face for a moment. Roahn silently watched, breath lodged in her throat, uncertain what was going to happen next.

In the next second, the Cardinal's talons suddenly dug into a part of Korridon's face, puncturing right through his carapace. The screech he emitted through his muzzle was far more terrible than the sounds Aleph had been pumping into Roahn's helmet beforehand. She too joined in the howls, panic and disgust seizing her in their thralls. Then the Cardinal suddenly ripped her arm away, tearing a chunk of the ridged cartilage right from Korridon's face! Deep blue blood splashed down the turian's eye, a piece missing from his forehead. He continued to bellow his strangled cries while he copiously bled. A sinister and smoothly feminine chuckle from the Cardinal wafted from the audio channel while the camera tilted and finally tipped away from the bound prisoner.

The static returned to Roahn's view. She felt like she was about to vomit, right in this room.

"Korridon!" she cried to the obscured feed. "_Korridon!_"

The injured turian did not rematerialize back on the screen. Rather, the cold and deathly presence slithered back in replacement, a voice taken on a tendril-like form, seeking to infect her mind.

"_**Your crewmember will only continue to accumulate more damage to his form the longer you linger."**_ Aleph sounded almost remorseful, like he regretted letting such barbarism occur to Korridon.

_Bastard_, Roahn was able to think, not buying any of it. _He could stop this with a wave of his hand. He's doing this to provoke me!_

"_**Bring the fragment to the fifth moon of the fourth planet in the Lgwanleig system**_," he continued plaintively._** "I will send specific coordinates to you once you are nearby. I will return your crewmember back, alive, in exchange for the piece you repatriated. Come alone, or I will have no choice but to renege on our deal."**_

There was a beat, and the sinister voice added, _**"I would be disappointed if my instincts on your character proved to be incorrect. I am looking forward to seeing you in person once more… Commander Shepard."**_

Like a switch being thrown, the presence receded, leaving a fetal and terrified Roahn huddling in the corner of a dry shower, convinced that there was no wall around her that could act as a safe prison for her own soul. Trembling, all she could see in her head was the scared look Korridon had in his eyes as his own skin had been pried away, the long note of his agonized roar echoing lowly in the recesses of her ears as an accompaniment.

_In person… he means to meet me. Face to face._

She had to wait until her shakes receded before she could finally rise.

* * *

Roahn's gut had already formulated her answer to Aleph's challenge by the time she shuffled miserably out of her room, but there was still one last threshold to mount before her brain would be in sync with what she intrinsically knew to be the right path. Little else mattered to her now—her life had all dropped away like she had been standing on the lone point of firm ground while the façade of her duty had crumbled around her feet.

No more team. No more destiny.

Just her. And that lingering ball of flame that was her indignant anger. It flickered within her, having been fed a few drops of fuel.

It burned her fear like the cleansing of a forest floor, leaving only pure emotion behind.

Her poise and stride gradually went from meek and timid to tall and determined as she traveled throughout the ship as her enraged conviction swelled. She strode past rows of techs, ascended the small flight flight of stairs, and trod through the long neck of the _Menhir_ before arriving at the terminal end, the lone occupant in the pilot's seat unsurprised at this intrusion.

"Creator," Sagan greeted but did not rise. The geth said nothing else. Unsurprising, as geth did not have the tendency to waste time, to clog it with unnecessary verbiage.

Roahn did not immediately answer as she crossed the room to take the copilot's seat. She touched the control to rotate the chair to face the yellow-colored geth. Sagan, detecting agitation in the quarian's body posture, also adjusted his chair to mimic Roahn's movements. Redshifting starlight made the approaching stars look blue in the looming view of FTL, creating a milky coating of azure across the geth's colored panels.

"Analysis indicates that you are experiencing extreme duress," Sagan said after Roahn faltered for a bit. "Your biometrics are residing beyond the upper quartiles. High heartbeat. Rapid brainwaves. It is recommended that you contact the _Menhir's_ medical officer for treatment."

"That won't be necessary," Roahn hastily blurted as she leaned forward. "I… I _can't_ see the doctor right now. I have to do something, Sagan, and… and it won't be easy. The others… they cannot know."

The geth took stock of this response for what he felt was a respectful amount of time before his synthesized voice cut in again. "Interrogative."

"Go ahead."

"What do you wish to keep confidential from the _Menhir_ crew?"

Roahn resisted the urge to hang her head, sigh, and rub her hands frantically. She was hunched over in her chair already, clearly in a shaky state as Sagan had obviously noticed. The geth, in contrast, was sitting up in a perfunctory manner, bright and attentive. Roahn realized the pose they were adopting right now, in this cockpit, must have cut a parallel to the days of old on Rannoch, back when her people had agonized and slaved over bringing their machine creations to life. Slumped in their chairs, drained from a day's work, as they stared up in wonderment at the beings who they thought would usher in a new era for their race.

"I received a message," she began, voice halting as she was still determining how much she wanted to reveal. She finally decided just to go all in. "From Aleph."

Sagan's major lens refocused—an indication that the geth was thinking. "The _Menhir_ has received no such transmission."

"The ship didn't receive it," Roahn's hands now turned upward, raking the air in their own plea to be believed. "It just… appeared. In my HUD. I wasn't imagining it. It was too vivid to be fake. It could have been a private quantum transmission… but that's experimental technology… or it could have been a virus that slipped through my extranet filters. Either way, he contacted me. He knew how to find me!"

Roahn was not sure if that was enough to get Sagan to believe her. Either that or the geth was smart enough to not embroil itself in an argument over semantics.

"The contents of the message?"

A fleeting halt took over as Roahn slowly closed her eyes. The constant shadow of doubt, hovering over her shoulder, giving pause to her words. The whine of space filled her ears, a low drone that pleasantly rumbled. Vague aches still plagued her bones. She flexed her fingers to ward off the lethargy.

In a spur of the moment inclination, Roahn opened her eyes and held out her hand. Her left one, palm glinting as the light fixtures shone down from the ceiling. Sagan looked down, absorbed the movement, and offered his own appendage. There was a slight click as their hands met. Metal lightly tapping against metal. But the geth's grip was gentle. Reassuring. To him, it was the most indisputable action to take, not just because he recognized it as the organic thing to do, but to contextually cognize what his presence accomplished for the quarian, his Creator.

So she told him everything. Aleph's warning. His proposed exchange. Korridon being alive. All of it. Every single sinister detail. It did not matter to the intensely personal nature—in the end, they all became data points for the geth. He was still a machine, unable to process to chemical complexities that could be translated as emotional responses. That was something that had yet to be calculated by any synthetic mind.

But that impersonality was what Roahn had been looking for in the beginning. After all, who else on this ship could truly claim to possess the capability for rationality?

"You fear your decision could be antithetical to the _Menhir_ collective," Sagan stated after Roahn had finished, still holding the quarian's hand.

"I fear that they won't _understand_," Roahn whispered.

"Then if your decision has been rendered," the geth said quizzically, "for what purpose did you hope to achieve by divulging your efforts to me?"

A serene look flashed over the quarian's face underneath her mask. She looked away.

"I guess… I wanted to be sure I was… rational. I just wanted to be a good leader, Sagan. I wanted my friends to come home safe. I couldn't save one. I have a chance to save the other."

Roahn felt Sagan's hand slowly tighten over hers. Clawed fingers found purchase on the quarian's smooth prosthetic digits. Turning back, she saw the two-lensed geth still peering with the same level of intent at her from when she had walked in the room. His head dipped millimetrically, but Roahn still caught the slight movement. Through all the madness and chaos, through all the turbulence that had upended her life, the geth had found a way to peer past all that. There was at least one who understood.

"The artifacts," Sagan said, "they are consequential to Aleph-Precursor."

"I know."

"And Sidonis-Corporal is consequential to you."

_He makes it sound so impactful_, Roahn thought. "Yes."

A pause. "The repercussions of retrieving Sidonis-Corporal are more defined than the alternative. However, surrendering the artifacts could result in unforeseen fallout from such actions."

Roahn narrowed her eyes. "What kind of fallout?"

"Unknown. The purpose of the artifacts has not yet been deciphered. The determination of Aleph-Precursor to retrieve such artifacts is indicative that he has collected enough information _to_ decipher their intended purpose. Such an individual carries an inherent danger."

"Is it worth the trade?"

The geth took a moment to process the question. "One organic life for one artifact. The variables to the equation have not yet been revealed—it is impossible to solve. We can only rely on interpretation now."

Roahn arched an eyebrow. "_'We?_'"

The flaps on Sagan's head gave a little tremor. Plaintive. A shrug?

"You and I. We."

The quarian's head tilted slightly to the left. A shaft of light from the holo-console pierced a corner of her helmet, creating a layered flare several starbursts long. The visible remnants turned every shade of color known before fading out as Roahn's eyes fixated themselves upon the geth. A trickle of blue from the outside windows dribbled down her prosthesis, almost as if the color was dripping onto Sagan's fingers, which she still held.

"Comply… and risk at least one life," Roahn mumbled through thick lips, but her eyes carried a blaze behind them. "Or don't… and risk everything?"

"You have your justification. Yet your intention was set before you stepped into this room."

Roahn nodded as her heart gave a dim pulse. A flutter of anticipation as some of her previous turmoil eroded away, crumbled into dust.

Her hand continued to clench down upon Sagan's. "I must ask you to do one thing for me, Sagan."

"I apologize, Creator," his even tone not betraying any discomfort that would typically befall an organic from the amount of force Roahn was currently exerting upon his hand, "but I am programmed to accept commands of your intended nature only from the captain of the _Menhir_."

Roahn sadly nodded. "I know…"

An orange disc and several long holographic straps soon appeared around the quarian's arm. Her omni-tool. It buzzed to life and immediately began auto-executing a program that had been primed to engage upon activation. Sagan looked at the tool for a moment in curiosity before it looked like he appeared to seize up—the geth suddenly raised his neck and stared straight out into space, head completely parallel to the ground. All of his synthetic muscles went rigid. Frozen. His major/minor lens apparatus locked itself mid-focus, the lights in the construction flickering dimly as new commands infiltrated his circuitry. Commands that had been lifted, long ago, from previous geth hacking interfaces. Old technology, but still viable. Still deadly.

"…which is why I'm sorry that I have to do this."

* * *

Hours later, Sam was nursing a cup of badly brewed coffee while he stalked the halls of the ship, gingerly prodding his nose every now and then. His face was contorted like he expected to wince as soon as he applied pressure to his recently acquired injury, but the precise administration of medi-gel had helped heal the torn cartilage in less than half an hour.

His duties had been completed, with no one on the ship needing his services, and he now resigned himself to stalking the length of the _Menhir_, making sure to keep an eye out for Garrus so he could steer clear of him. He would be on speaking terms with the turian by the next day, but it was better to let his brief anger die out completely rather than risk letting the smolder gain a sudden fueling flame.

Through tired eyes, he traversed the neck of the ship as, on a whim, he went to check on how Sagan was doing. He also wanted to check out the view from the front windows as well, just to provide him a glimpse at the cosmic magnificence just inches away through transparent steel.

Sam had to rub his eyes in confusion upon arriving when, he noticed first and foremost through the window, that the _Menhir_ appeared to be in orbit above a planet. No… a moon. The larger axis of a purpled gas giant nearly filled the view in the rightmost window. He was not particularly good at keeping track of time while ship-bound, but Sam did have the planets in the Local cluster memorized and the one currently sitting in front of his face did not look familiar at all. Red-tinged canyons, water-pooled valleys, dry plains of white sand—not a planet that Sam could name off the top of his head.

"The hell is this?" Sam waved a hand towards the unexpected vista. "I thought we were going back to the Citadel?"

"Destination… has been… reached…" Sagan said in a halting manner, like the words were difficult for him to materialize.

"_Destination?_" Sam repeated. "No, no, no, this isn't our destination. Sagan, are you…"

Sam now looked to the geth and tilted his head in confusion. Sagan was sitting perfunctorily straight in his chair, arms locked in a rigid and an ironically robotic poise. Looking closer, the doctor could see that the synthetic's body was making tiny nudges from side to side, the same kind of movements a bound person would try to make to get free of their restraints.

"Helloooo? Sagan!" Sam barked. "What the fuck is going on with you?"

With what seemed like a tremendous effort, the geth rotated in his seat to face Sam.

"Operational systems… are coming back online. Full functionality is expected… to be achieved… in the next cycle. Remaining on station… awaiting commands."

"Jee-zus Christ!" Sam raised an arm in exasperation before he walked out of the cockpit in disgust. "Our resident geth has apparently decided _now_ is the time to reboot himself!"

Well, it looked like entertaining a discussion between himself and Sagan was not going to happen. Sinking deeper into a dark mood, Sam shuffled over to the elevator after downing the last few drops from his coffee. He elbowed the button for the engineering level and leaned against the rear of the cube, one hand in a pocket, as the door closed. Upon arrival, he moseyed on over to the drive core area, hopeful that he could pick up on a few tidbits from the closest thing to a data scientist that this ship had, desperate to alleviate his boredom.

But Liara did not even look up at Sam as he entered. The asari was sitting at a desk on the left side of the core work area, leaning in towards a six-screened holo-console. Columns of data were flashing by at an unreadable rate—Sam had to blink his eyes and look away after staring at the matrix of raw information, his vision hurting a bit.

He cleared his throat to get the asari to notice him. "Making any progress with the artifact?" he asked conversationally.

Liara shook her head in a distracted manner, her fingers a blur as they swapped keyboard layouts one by one, her eyes darting from screen to screen. "Haven't delved too deeply into it yet. There's something… very strange in our files that I'm trying to pin down. I'll… I'll be working on it as soon as I'm able."

Sam absent-mindedly took a sip from his cup, only realizing that it was empty. He set the mug down on Liara's desk.

"Well, when you get to it, let me know if you need any of the slack picked up on your daily tasks."

"Thanks, Sam," Liara said, eyes still glued to the screen.

"Where is the artifact anyway?"

"Over there." Liara waved a hand in the general direction of the drive core, the hallway beyond drenched with the tender wisps of light coming from the metallic heart of the craft.

Sam glanced over towards the desk the asari was gesturing to, finding it to be filled to the brim with datapads, wired consoles, and an assortment of delicate tools. But no artifact.

"_Where?_" he asked again, certain that Liara was being too vague.

Annoyed, Liara leaned out of her chair and now levelled a specific finger at the desk Sam had been looking at in the first place. "Right _there_—"

But, as Sam had come to dreadfully expect, Liara's slender blue finger failed to bring about a sudden materialization of the object in question because, once her arm had fully settled into position, it soon dawned on her that the artifact was no longer in the place she had expected it to be. Her eyes bulged in alarm as she abruptly cut off her own words while Sam stood there, a long look on his face, as if he was expecting to be the victim of an ill-timed prank.

"Um…" Liara stammered, nearly falling out of her chair. "It was… _supposed_ to be there."

Sam gave a slow blink. "Oh, this _isn't_ a jape? Well, where the hell could it have gone to? It's a damn ship, there's not many places for it to hide."

"I'll bring up the security feeds," Liara said as she worryingly turned back to her screens, mind already abuzz with potential next moves. "We'll be able to find out what happened to it."

The two then spent only a couple of minutes quickly scanning through the video clips that the ship's cameras had managed to capture. Sam did note that, throughout the entire timespan of the footage, Liara had steadfastly remained in her seat, working at her desk. He had to admit, if he had not already heard of the asari's exploits, this straight doggedness and dedication to her work was testament enough to her relentless determination towards righting the galaxy from its perilous path. Admirable qualities, but dangerously well past the point of workaholic territory.

Liara's hand then slammed on the pause button as she spotted something in one of the feeds. "There!" she pointed. On one screen, a figure was portrayed at having snuck by Liara without the asari having even noticed they were there—she really must have been engrossed in whatever she was doing if foot traffic could have proceeded past her without her knowing. The person in the footage brazenly disregarded the cameras as they crept over to the desk where the artifact sat, fiddled with the wires for its grav-disc that kept it aloft, and stuffed it into a small bag that they then flung over a shoulder.

As this person left the frame, they looked upward for a split second, but this person was so inherently familiar to the both of them that neither Sam nor Liara needed to get facial recognition for them to know the truth.

"Roahn!" Sam and Liara gaped at the same time. The human frantically pointed to the quarian's image. "Where is she now? Is she still on the ship?"

"Hold on!" Liara breathed as she booted up the _Menhir's_ security suite. She cycled through various feeds until she landed on the one she needed. The asari leaned in to confirm what she was looking for before she gave a breathy nod. "She's still here! Hangar bay, by one of the shuttles!"

But Sam was already dashing out the door, muttering "_Motherfucker! Motherfucker!_" to himself, not caring what anyone else would think of him. He barreled out of the engineering room at full tilt and mashed his hands upon the elevator panel. It beeped angrily at him—someone was already using the lift. Sam was not the sort of person to compartmentalize his anger all that easily and so he kicked the door in his frustration, nearly breaking a toe in the process.

With a yowl, Sam then limped towards the staircase that led one floor up, pushing aside any hapless recruit that happened to be in his way. Damn the elevator, there was more than one way to get around this ship!

With a heavy feeling weighing down his head, Sam knew that at some point today he was going to have to end up swallowing his pride, though he could not have guessed that that time had come for him so soon. The source of his trepidation was soon in his sights as he maneuvered past the cafeteria, and they had Grunt at their side as they came from inspecting the gun batteries near the front.

"Garrus," Sam breathed, thoughts momentarily jumbled as several topics clashed in an attempt to convey their importance. He had to bend over to take a breath. "I… I have to…"

The turian was staring at him, glassy-eyed. As if he was contemplating lashing out once more to indicate his disgust or to simply turn his cheek and ignore what he had to say.

Sam couldn't say he could blame Garrus, honestly. He was not ignorant, he knew how he behaved. But there was still the dangerous reservoir of annoyance that threatened to spill over the dam in his mind if Garrus did not have the capacity to be a bigger man than he let on, otherwise this was going to get real interesting quite soon. And bloody. Definitely bloody.

"I know I was an idiot," Sam pivoted, voice low and growling. "Hell, I was an _asshole_ to you, Garrus. I won't make any excuses. I'm _sorry_. I was a real asshole and I—"

"Sam," the turian softly interrupted as he stepped forward to close the gap, arm outreached not to deliver a fearsome strike, but a calming clasp to the human's shoulder. "You're forgiven. You were just on edge. We all were. And I'm sorry as well. For… for breaking your nose, I mean."

"Wasn't the first time that's happened to me," Sam flippantly waved off.

Garrus narrowed his eyes. "I'm guessing it won't be the last, either."

Sam's features cracked into a smile. Garrus mandibles gave a dry twitch. The two shared a soft chuckle between them, with Grunt shifting his weight from foot to foot behind them, getting impatient.

"Now," Garrus then said, "I don't think you came over here to apologize, did you, Sam? I will admit you've made me feel a little guilty about that—as captain I should've set the example and come to you first. But perhaps… what you said earlier, maybe there was some truth to that after all."

"Forget all that," Sam shook his head, adrenaline soon seeping back into his veins as he quickly remembered why he had come here in the first place. "Garrus, I think Roahn changed the ship's course. She took the artifact and she's down in the hangar bay, prepping a shuttle! I think she's planning to go somewhere with that thing you picked up from Triton."

If a turian's carapace was not so thick, Sam would have been able to see Garrus' face pale in seconds as the blood seemed to rush from his head. "Come with me right now," he urged as he suddenly took off in a run back toward the elevator. Sam followed, with Grunt eagerly right behind him, intrigued to find out where all this would lead.

This time, the lift was empty and waiting on their floor. The three crammed themselves into it—Grunt's bulky frame squashed Sam in the corner in the ensuing melee, bringing out a surprised squawk from the man as the doors closed. The shuttle bay was soon revealed as the door opened seconds later. Garrus took off at a jog right out of a gate, Sam now coming in last after having his ribs crushed by a rather energetic krogan.

The cargo bay doors to the _Menhir_ were already open but the glowing transparent walls of energy from the environmental shielding were keeping the chill of space back. In the distance, a chalky red and white moon slowly moved into view, the edges of the stratosphere bumpy with cumulonimbus clouds and sizzling with high-altitude lightning. That was clearly not Earth, Garrus noted, now having direct visual confirmation that they were nowhere near their planned resupply stop at that world's orbital shipyards.

"She's preparing for something, all right," Grunt rumbled as they approached.

One of the _Menhir's_ Kodiak shuttles had already been maneuvered into position, angled and ready for engine ignition. Upon hearing the tromping of the approaching trio, Roahn walked out from the shuttle's open door, eyes patient and unsurprised, with somewhat of a tired slant to her walk.

She had no weapon attached to her body, but her enviro-suit was now packed with more armor than Garrus had seen thus far on the woman. Roahn's shins now had extended calf guards with flexible knee plates. Her right arm was sheathed with extra ammo and medi-gel slots, as did the bandolier that she had looped around her waist. She had applied a molded chestplate to her front, rigid enough to take several rounds without incident but flexible enough to sync with the movements of her breathing. The final touch had been her own _sehni_—Roahn had slotted an inflexible shell over the front part of the fabric that usually was pulled over her helmet. The soft but surging waves still washed their purple color, but it was more muted now that the quarian had applied black and gold accents in her new armor coloration, her attire radically altered.

The contours of the determined woman still resonated, but their configuration had been transmogrified ever so slightly. Recognizable, but now embodying a specter of retribution. The quarian looked like she could rip out the throat of anyone within arm's reach. A swipe of her fingers and blood would hit the floor in a flurry.

"I don't want you to stop me," she called across the bay, her voice powerful.

Garrus and Grunt slowed to a tender walk—the turian in particular keeping his hands open and wide in a gesture of friendship.

"I have no designs to do anything right now," Garrus assured. "I just want to know what _you're_ doing, Roahn. What are you doing with the artifact?"

"I'm taking it with me. Trading it for Korridon."

Garrus gave a quick shake of his head, certain he had misheard her. "_Korridon?_ How do you know where he is?"

"From the same person who told me where to pick him up," Roahn raised her chin, defiant, as she swept an arm towards the grand view just beyond the shuttle. "Aleph is torturing him. I promised myself I would stop his rampage any way I can. If I can save one person—just one—then I will not hesitate to do so."

The very notion that it had been Aleph that had made this inclination to Roahn—_Roahn_, of all people!—and she was _going_ with it, was astonishing to the turian. This was the same woman who had lost an arm to the man. Who had spent her waking hours fantasizing about the many brutal ways she could take him apart.

And now she was agreeing to terms Aleph was setting?

"Aleph could be lying to you!" Garrus said. "This could all be a manipulation to have you bring the artifact to him. And what if doing so leads to many more deaths? Would it be worth it then?"

Roahn took a step forward. A tiny lunge.

"All I know for certain is that one person's life is in our hands right now. Not just one person—one of our own crew. I—I mean… we—already lost one of ours today. Someone that I cared deeply about. I'm not planning to sacrifice the galaxy for a single life… but I have no idea what consequences Aleph might intend. Confronted with that unknown… there is only one real stake at hand. Korridon. The choice is obvious to me."

Sam peeked his head out behind Grunt. "But did you really have to mess with Sagan to get what you want? The poor thing's all discombobulated now because of what you did!"

Roahn's eyes narrowed. "Sagan will be fine. The motor override was only programmed to last for thirty-six hours. More than enough time to make it here without him counteracting my commands."

"But in doing so, you've now put the whole crew at risk, Roahn!" Garrus sighed. "We're out here, in the middle of uncharted territories, following instructions from a megalomaniac."

"Which is why I intend to go there by myself. The _Menhir's_ a stealth ship—not even a Reaper could pick us up while running hot. Everyone on the ship would be safe. I would be the only one being put at risk down there. This is my burden to bear. No one else's."

"Roahn, tell me this isn't a mission of revenge."

The quarian's helmet slowly shook back and forth. "I thought it over for a long time, Garrus. I knew that I probably had no chance of making you see my point of view. But for once, just once, I want to actually do something in my life that I'm proud of. Save a life, make a difference, anything. Just something that is actual proof that I have been trying to do the right thing all this time."

From a pouch at her side, Roahn withdrew the chipped artifact, free of its clear prison, and shook it fiercely in her hand. It glinted in the light of the planet, sparkling off its ragged edges. It appeared to hum with a divine resonance, yet Roahn handled it as if were a mere child's toy.

"We've been finding these things all over the galaxy with nothing to show for our efforts. Sure, we've had some luck in taking out a few PMCs, but for every one that we destroy, the next day one more will be incorporated to take its place. We haven't changed anything for anyone, Garrus! We've just become a part of the same old bloody cycle. And all the while, these artifacts do nothing but change hands. One after the other. We're the ephemeral and they're the perpetual. The way things are going, the artifacts will still exist in some form or another long after we're gone. And after all this time… we never truly managed to figure out their intended purpose. So yes, Aleph can have this. He can have this insignificant piece to add to his collection. But if it brings Korridon back to us… then… well…"

Unable to find a thoughtful conclusion to her rant, Roahn quietly stowed the artifact back into her pocket, well aware of how she must look to her comrades. She looked at the three people across from here, standing there in their statue-like poses. Conflicted. Confused. Roahn's heart felt like it had adopted a painful lump on its side—three spear points felt like they were jabbing at her insides whenever the organ firmly throbbed. She was about to size them up, wondering if she could risk making a break for the shuttle, until Garrus took one small step forward, his posture not at all threatening.

"Would you be willing to wait a few minutes?" he asked Roahn.

"_Huh?! What the hell are you talking about?_" Sam fiercely whispered to the turian.

"_Spirits_, _would you shut up for just one second?!_" Garrus tilted his head and shot back.

Suspicious, Roahn's eyes dug into slits. "Why?"

Garrus turned back from Sam and gave a shrug like it was the most natural reaction in the world.

"To get our stuff ready. So that we can come with you, obviously."

Roahn was not the sort of person to be easily struck, but this moment was an exception as she had prepared herself to engage in every single manner of protest beyond resorting to fisticuffs. Capitulation was nowhere near the top of her list of outcomes she had expected to transpire.

"You'd…" she coughed before she cleared her throat, "…you'd really want to come along? Aleph was quite clear—he said to come alone."

"Roahn," Garrus sighed, "with all due respect, I'm using this moment to pull rank. After all that's happened, you really think I would let a member of my crew go off by herself? The only way you're getting off this ship cleanly is if we all go together. That's what a _team_ does, Roahn. That… is my obligation to you as your captain."

Roahn felt herself grow small. _This is not what a good commander does_, was the implication. And Garrus was right, to her everlasting shame.

There were some moments where Roahn was glad for her mask. While having other being able to freely see her face was something she would give anything in the galaxy for—a sentiment shared among her kind—in the tiniest slivers of time that required a modicum of privacy, her enviro-suit found a willing wearer. Her cheeks darkened and her gaze flashed to the ground for a split-second, abashed at being reminded of her duty. To her fellow soldiers. To her friends.

Without a sound, she nodded, the movement nearly too dim to make out, but resonated all the same.

Garrus turned and gave Grunt's shoulder blade a clap. "Grab what you need in five," he said before he began to bustle off to collect the supplies he needed. "Then we're getting on that shuttle."

"Dare I wish you guys luck on this foolish mission of yours?" Sam raised an eyebrow as Garrus walked up to him before heading off to prepare.

"Oh, you won't need to dare. You're coming too, smart-ass," Garrus abruptly leaned in, nearly butting heads with the tall human. "Grab your gear."

"I regret ever meeting you," Sam scowled, throwing his hands up to convey his displeasure. But he uttered no further words of protest and grumbled off to the armory lockers to grab a few trappings of armor and a couple of guns. "_Son of a bitch. I'm a doctor from California, not John-fucking-McClane!_"

Grunt stayed put where he was, ice-blue eyes watching the others gather their things in his own private amusement. Roahn walked over to the krogan's side.

"You're not getting your weapons?" she asked him.

The krogan rumbled a gravelly laugh, one that would normally be considered fearsome in any other circumstances, but for Grunt it was a genial conveyance of light-hearted expression.

"What kind of krogan would I be…" he answered as he reached behind his back and unhooked a gigantic grenade launcher that had been previously hidden from the quarian, the barrel sharpened to a razor-fine edge, with a drum magazine that held several dozen rounds of heavy ammo and glowed a fearsome crimson, "…if I didn't already have a weapon on me?"

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so it turns out I lied about being able to make further edits on the last chapter. I did eventually get my computer up and running, but in the process lost my first attempt at one of the sections that I had to end up rewriting. I blame electrical gremlins. Shame, I wanted to see how the two attempts would've looked in a side-by-side comparison.**

**Okay, so now that we're at the 3/4ths mark of the story, I want to make a quick request for you guys. To those who are still reading and following every update, I would kindly ask if you could please take a few minutes out of your day to drop a review or some other observations to this story. Having feedback means a lot and it also helps me pinpointing any areas that I could possibly correct in my writing. You don't need to write a review the length of a newspaper article, just something that conveys your genuine thoughts. Good, bad, I want to hear it all.**

**In any case, thank you for bearing with me. With this outbreak going on and all, I just want to know if I'm helping to keep people entertained while they're locked up.**

**Be sure to stay tuned for next chapter. It's probably going to be the most important one released thus far!**

**Playlist:**

**Memories of Skye**  
**"Cabin on a Lake"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Alien: Covenant (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Aleph's Message**  
**"Space Suicide"**  
**David Buckley**  
**Call of Duty: Ghosts (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**The Shuttle/Time to See Aleph**  
**"Hard Target"**  
**Sean Murray**  
**Call of Duty: Black Ops (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	28. Chapter 28: The Precursor's Verse

"_Mass Effect 3: Better With Mods"_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Sangxo__  
Lgwanleig System_

Sangxo's sky was the color of whisky, slashed by slatted iron clouds. Thin atmosphere, but still breathable. The air tasted like chalk and salt. A wild moon, deep in the throes of creation—steam vents miles long could be seen topping the nearby mountains, its expulsions looking remarkably like puffed cream. Its landscape was a creased canvas of obsidian sierras, mirror-smooth buttes, and deep valleys of sand and saltwater. Veins of pyrite and jade glittered from cracks in the very peaks, natural resources spilling from the insides of this heavenly body. The water that lined the base of the mountains, sandbars obtruding occasionally from the glass surface, had too high of a salinity count for life to flourish. No plant or animal had yet evolved to survive on Sangxo.

That would certainly explain the complete lack of noise here.

It was uncomfortable to consider the fact that the dull ringing Sam had in the base of his eardrums was perhaps an unconscious noise his brain was creating to counter for the complete absence of sound on this moon. There was no wind. No chirp or cry from birds. Barely even a clatter from stray pebbles tumbling off the side of the timeworn cliffs.

The man gave a shiver and adjusted his collar. Sangxo was a cold place, especially at this altitude. Sam hunkered down and crouch-walked to the edge of the bluff, at least a thousand feet above the valley floor in front of them. They had an unparalleled view for miles, deep into the basin. The vista was unobstructed, completely clear, unspoiled by smog or any other pollution. Garrus was already setting up shop at the edge, encased in his armor. Grunt hung behind, near the shuttle which had been parked at the other side of the accommodating mesa, heavy weapon cradled lovingly in both hands. A near-vertical drop beckoned to the group—it surrounded them on all sides of the protruding geological figure. Sam had to shut his eyes for a moment as a bout of vertigo threatened to pull him under.

Dizzy, stomach churning, Sam counted to twenty before opening his eyes, giving his head a shake for good measure. He dropped prone alongside Garrus and reached down to his belt, going past the holstered pistol he had taken from the _Menhir_, choosing to procure a set of binoculars instead. He was inches away from sheer death, knowing that if he was still standing, any major shift in his balance could cause him to topple off the edge. He tried not to think about it. Sam was not afraid of heights but he worried he could develop that phobia the longer he lingered up here.

"Did I tell you already that I think this was a bad idea?" Sam grimaced as he shuffled beside the turian, eyes already focused through the binoculars as he swept his vision from point to point.

"You know… you have?" Garrus sarcastically answered without looking from the sniper rifle he was patiently assembling out from its case. A jumble of various barrels, stocks, scopes, and capacitors in various materials had been set aside while the turian carefully selected which piece he felt was the most suitable for the job ahead. "You've been saying so the entire shuttle ride down."

Sam pulled a face. "Well, _excuse me_ for being so cautious, princess. I just thought that your plan on coming here was to interject a little more of your involvement in this whole scheme. From my point of view, trying to snipe a pinpoint target at the bottom of that valley a couple of miles away doesn't seem like—"

"Would you please shut up!" Garrus hissed, already nearing his limit for the day. He used the ensuring lull in the conversation to take a deep breath before returning to assembling his rifle. He opened the chamber of the weapon and slotted in a few thermal clips, each one making thick clicks as they were inserted one after the other.

Returning to his role as recon, Sam brought the binoculars back to his face and spent several minutes scanning the slushy floor of the valley.

"Aleph's down there," he said after a bit. "Somewhere."

"Hopefully," Garrus said dryly as he kicked out the stand to his rifle, fitting the stock snugly against his shoulder before he leaned his head over to look through his scope.

"And Roahn's going to him."

The turian clicked a knob on his scope, adjusting the zoom. He looked like a sleek bird of prey hunkered down upon a branch, patiently searching for his next kill. Light seeped through the gashes in his fringe, slightly glinting off the lens of the sights.

"Worried for her safety?" he asked out loud.

"I just have no idea what to expect. No freakin' idea, man. I'd rather she brought someone down there with her."

"She was insistent that she go alone. That was the one stipulation she was going to hold her ground on."

The thought did not assuage Sam in the slightest. "I just hope that she knows what she's doing."

"I think…" Garrus considered, "…that in some small way, she does."

"That's just what you _hope_, I think you mean to say."

The men remained perched upon the lip of the clip, anxiously waiting, eyes through their devices. Their apprehension only continued to rise as the tarnished sun ripped its way through the ragged cloud cover, warming their heads.

* * *

Water-saturated sand ballooned around Roahn's ankles with every step. White salt deposits on the edge of the sandbar looked like enamel, encrusting the boundaries where the shallow water lapped. Thick footprints lay behind the quarian, molded to the shape of her boots.

She kept to the middle of the sandbar, trying to keep an even distance from the collected water patches that flanked her. It was drier here, easier to walk. The sun had been baking the sand that had not yet been waterlogged, making it slightly easier to traverse. Millions of little sprites—bits of reflective glass and cobbled stone—beamed up at her, a sun from the ground. She looked upward, momentarily lost in thought, mildly taking into account that it was a pleasant day.

At least there was going to be one upside if this was to be her last one.

The sharp mountains that ringed the valley were far away enough to look like dark crumpled paper. Roahn resisted the urge to look backwards towards a particular section, where she knew that Garrus and everyone else had set up a makeshift sniper's perch. She figured she was being monitored by nefarious forces as soon as she had reached the ground level—she did not want to make any motion that would give her friends away. Now was not the time to be flippant. Whether these theoretical people who were doing the monitoring encompassed the entirety of the being she was seeking out or if they simply happened to be anyone else affiliated with him… she'd rather not make the distinction right now. She couldn't. There was just too much on her mind.

"_**You are not to kill this one…"**_

Damn him. He was starting to get inside her head now. When he was so close…

The artifact weighed heavily in the pocket at her waist. On her opposite hip, a heavy pistol jostled against her thigh. An assault rifle and shotgun slotted upon her back provided a remarkable counterweight, keeping her situated from leaning forward too much. She plodded forward, nerves in her arms ablaze, ready to react at a moment's notice.

She was a lone point in the valley. A dark blot amongst the tides of dust and sand. The edges of Roahn's _sehni_ trembled with each step she took. Tendrils of intoxicating heat curled from the sunbaked ground, salt crunching underneath the quarian's heels.

A parched path of hardened earth soon opened up in front of her, allowing her to knock the collected sand from her boots. She kept on, fists clenched at her sides.

"_**It is a journey that has already taken payment from you…"**_

A distant ache in her left arm kept itself waiting patiently in the distance. A hollow reminder of a most grievous wound, a scar in her mind. Was she truly ready for this? It had been months since her first encounter with the terrifying being she was now deliberately marching to meet. Every detail of that explosive encounter, whereupon it had been concluded from the gnashing of carbon alloy teeth, remained permanently etched in her head. She rubbed at the afflicted area unconsciously, fighting the urge to make a pained expression. Her fingers stretched of their own accord, desperate to drive away any sensations that would otherwise act as a distraction to her.

Each step forward became more and more of an effort. A hand felt like it was slowly constricting itself around her lungs, slowing her breathing. Roahn wondered if this was how a convict, sentenced to death, felt during their last walk. Their last voluntary act of dignity. Did she truly think she was going to come back from this? Was Aleph going to keep his word? Suspicions and obscurities flooded her head, never pointing her clearly to the right conclusion. It kept her on edge. It kept her afraid.

"_**There is much more dimensionality to our conflict than you realize…"**_

Luna. The abandoned colony. The Citadel. And now here. Every time she had come into contact with Aleph, he had always been several steps ahead. Undaunted. Never breaking focus. An unnatural prescience surrounded the man. What chance did she have to stand up to such a powerful foe?

Roahn pushed all morose thoughts from her mind with a grimace. No sense in succumbing to despair just yet. She had a friend she needed to save.

Another half an hour passed of Roahn trundling through the desert of the valley. The shattered and fragmented mountains slowly crept on by as she walked. But, the more she traveled, the better sense of her surroundings slowly came into focus. The valley was in the shape of a "V" and she was starting to approach the axis point. A labyrinth of jagged rocks, volcanic and rhyolite, several meters tall, and ebon to the point of lacking any definition other than its natural luster, formed a congregation near the swerve in the valley floor to her left. Roahn headed to it—the path naturally curved in its direction.

_You've seen me maimed_, she thought to assuage her own soul. _You've seen me helpless. You've seen me in every pathetic state imaginable. Now it's different. Now you will see me defiant. You will see what my hatred to you will bring. I will be the nemesis you've always wanted. Before long, I will understand you… and you will regret leaving me alive._

The path softly sloped upward and Roahn followed the rise. It felt like she was ascending the stairs to her own judgment and damnation. Her breath felt like razors slashing at her throat—her heartbeat strongly surged in her chest, creating a void of white noise cascading in her ears.

Roahn stopped at the edge of the obsidian morass, several meters away from the first clutch of sharpened rocks.

She lowered her head, eyes fearsome and deadly.

"Here I am," she hissed, her voice cutting through the air with ease.

Five seconds later, a large figure stepped from the shadows of the rocks. They left deep footprints in their wake. The cloak they wore barely jostled in the thin atmosphere, oily black. The rippled sun blinked off of the side of their chrome helmet, a light that now turned blood red as it penetrated the tangle of long and curved points of igneous glass overhead. The giantlike figure seemed to tower over Roahn as they slowly descended the loping hill, their stride purposeful and deliberate. Thick hands of Silaris armor hung empty at his sides, no noise of breath discernable in the quietness of the moon.

For a moment, the two opponents stood without a word. Studying. Observing. Anticipating.

Then Aleph lifted a hand. Beckoning.

"**I am glad you came, Roahn'Shepard."**

* * *

Garrus held his breath behind the scope of his rifle. He could see Roahn standing completely still, stance slightly spread. Her back was partially to him, but it was clear that she was interacting with something—someone—right now.

Only problem was that there was a rock wall in the way, right where the quarian was facing. There was no way to get a visual confirmation.

"Shit," Sam said next to him, noticing the same thing.

"No visual," Garrus whispered. "I don't have a visual. I can't get a shot."

"_Shit_," Sam said again. "Roahn needs to draw him out! Should we relocate?"

"Too late for that," Garrus muttered, the crosshairs of his weapon gently interjecting itself in the direction where Roahn was looking. "It's all up to her to resolve this now."

* * *

The sky glowed a hellish color as the sun threatened to set upon the scene. Roahn's hands were nearly consumed by fitful twitches, desperate urges to reach her weapons and pull the trigger in a clean, crisp motion.

Aleph continued to proceed down the gradual hill, his rounded helmet tilting in the barest fashion. He looked prophetic in his calm and poised gait. **"Do not be frightened,"** he said. **"I come bearing no weapons. You will have no need for yours, either."**

Roahn did not respond or find herself at all comforted by the man's words. As if she could trust _anything_ that came out of his mouth—vocabulator—whatever! Her hands stayed in the same position.

"**I wonder what you believe was the driving force that brought you here,"** Aleph wondered. **"The memory of what you have sacrificed? The rage borne from your perceived frailties? Perhaps it does not matter. We all like to entertain the thought that we are driven by more intrepid inclinations. It is difficult for us to admit that our desires might run paradoxical to the path others might have set. Trapped between these choices, we inhabit our own private perdition. Is the pull to free yourself from that pit your motivation, Roahn'Shepard? To cast yourself from the specter of previous expectations?"**

"Neither," Roahn spat. She dug in her pocket for the artifact and held it out in the open air, both it and her hand shining in the light of the waning sun. "I didn't come here to engage in speculation. I brought what you asked for. Now… it's your turn. _Where is Korridon?_"

To her surprise, Aleph shook his head as he politely lifted a hand. **"Not yet,"** he said. **"I will take possession of the fragment only after you hear what I have to say."**

"I don't want to listen to anything that comes from your mouth! Where _is_ he?! If you've hurt him further, I swear I'll—"

"**Your friend has not had additional harm applied to him,**" Aleph assured. "**And fear not. He is close by."**

Aleph swept an arm, indicating a spot between the sharpened blades of rock, where a flash of nondescript steel—a shuttle—awaited. Roahn dashed forward a few steps, activating her visor's zoom function. Perhaps a quarter of a mile away, out in the middle of a flattened salt plain, a winged craft with its gullwing doors was patiently parked. No one was around the craft, but she could see someone inside it.

Roahn zoomed in closer and her entire body seemed to freeze in place as she beheld Korridon, still muzzled, hands bound in front of him, as he sat on one of the shuttle's benches, all alone. A bandage had been applied to his forehead, soaked in blood, from where the Cardinal had set to work on him. The turian was stirring in his seat, looking fraught with worry, but not in any way badly wounded. So far away… but he was at least _right there!_

_He's alive_, Roahn nearly gasped.

"**I must admit that I am surprised that you were willing to risk all this for the safety of this man,"** Aleph said as he suddenly strode in front of Roahn, preventing her from dashing towards the turian and cutting him free from his bonds. **"I took the time to examine his profile in the interim. I can imagine he has kept some secrets from you. Do you truly know the quality of the man you're exchanging the fragment for? I doubt he would have told you that he murdered his superior officer before he became associated with your group."**

The look that Roahn gave Aleph could have melted a starship's hull with its full-blooded ferocity.

"He _did_, as a matter of fact. He trusted me enough to tell me that!"

"**But did he tell you **_**why**_**… or **_**how?**_** Did he happen to mention that he immolated the officer with a flamethrower? In front of multiple witnesses?"**

A painful lurch resonated within the quarian. Roahn was thrown for a critical moment, her head starting to spin. _No… no! Korridon could never be capable of such… such brutality!_ But as much as her first instinct was to scream a passionate denial, something in the man's even tone told her that what he had said was not at all impossible. And she was left momentarily lost once more, wondering if she had ever known her friend to even begin with.

Then the image, of a maniacal Korridon wielding the instrument that belched hellfire and smoke, suddenly came to her mind. A whirlwind of dripping flames billowed over the landscape of her inner thoughts. The sheer horror of even imagining the look the turian had on his face, wild-eyed and… somehow… reveling in the madness of it all, was so distressing that it nearly caused her to succumb to nausea.

Aleph's shoulders slumped microscopically, as if he was somehow disappointed. **"There are many things you do not understand, Roahn'Shepard. But I believe you have the capacity to realize better than anyone else. That… is one of the reasons why I wanted to have you here."**

Clawing herself back from her dark fantasy, Roahn blinked a tear from her eye before her lips curled into a snarl.

"Say what you have to say, then!"

But Aleph took a gentle step forward as he raised a hand, a nearly imperceptible aura, like an intense vibration, surrounding his fingers.

"**I believe it would be better if I show you."**

A gentle throbbing, akin to the onset of a headache, began to pulsate in the corner of Roahn's skull. She was about to give a wince and clutch at the affected area when, all of a sudden, there was a distinct _flexing_ in her mind and the entire landscape she saw before her disappeared in a swath of scintillating lights and a miasma of incalculable color. Her inner ear tilted, whirled, and ultimately gave up as she lost all sense of which way up was. She was floating in empty space, devoid and dark, for a brief few moments before a pulling sensation yanked on her entire body, sending her screaming through atomically thin barriers one at a time, crashing through each one like panes of glass. Collected voices erupted in screams all around her. The mountainous and sandy slopes of the moon had completely disappeared—something else was slowly filtering back, like from a long pull focus, to miraculously replace it. _Replace_, like she had somehow teleported from one place to another! Warm and dusty light soon seeped in, the color of burnt caramel. She felt her organs expand back to their original shape, as if they had previously been compressed into the size of a thermal clip's diameter. Energy and pain flowed from her heart to the tips of her fingers—if she had not been suited Roahn imagined that she would have seen her veins engorged in thrombosis.

Then, the entire process having taken less than ten seconds, Roahn's knees gave out just as the catastrophic wailing in her ears ceased to resound. She dropped to the floor, hands splayed out, expecting to feel soft dirt and sandy underneath, but instead she felt… a hard surface. Smooth and polished. Partially pliant. Wood. A wood floor. _Impossible_, she would have thought, but she was still confounded, her mind in the process of trying to figure out _what the fuck_ had just happened to think of anything else.

Then she lifted her head and beheld a miracle.

Gone was the expanse of the carved and arenaceous surface of the moon. A distant compression fell upon her like a subtle thrumming against her eardrums—the sort of presence one felt when indoors or in an enclosed space. Sure enough, as soon as her focus returned, her sight was the next sense to align from what the other context clues had been indicating to her this whole time.

She was in a room with a low ceiling, soothing natural light filtering through large windows in thick pillars. A table shaped to a parallel slice of an _onosho_ tree trunk was next to her—six chairs surrounding it. The railing of a deck out on a porch was behind her. A stone-studded kitchen, the masonry sheared and polished, with hanging copper appliances over a sink extended just past her to the right. And all the way forward, Roahn could see a homestead doorway, rimmed with primal glass, with a staircase protruding upward just before the foyer, also made of a thick hardwood. A wide planter, filled with a variety of native flora—turbulent vines, hardy shrubs, striking flowers—spilled green from the damp soil, acting as a barrier between the dining room and the entryway to the house.

Not just any house, she realized. _Her_ house.

Somehow… she was back on Rannoch.

"How…" was all she could mumble. "How…"

Distant waves could now be discerned. The light outside was a breathy white, obscured by sea mist. Roahn stumbled to her feet and walked up to the glass door that led to the deck, gently planting a three-fingered hand upon the clear surface as she longingly looked out to the ocean. She tested the resilience of the door—there was definite sensation running through her fingertips. Not a dream. Not a hallucination.

"This is… impossible," she whispered as she took a tender step backwards.

"**Not impossible,"** Aleph's voice resounded. Roahn spun around in a fury to observe the armored denizen now standing beside the planter, a few steps away from the table. **"There are many ways to trick the nervous system, to reroute electrical signals in one's brain to elicit different reactions. Reroute enough pathways and a new 'reality' can be constructed—a mere filter that acts as a distraction for the senses. The technology to do so has its limitations, but you would not believe what I have to say had this not been demonstrated to you."**

Roahn's confusion was mounting. She was barely paying attention as she turned her gaze to the side, not maintaining eye contact. Getting her breath back, she regained enough cognizance to begin sidestepping around the _onosho_ table as Aleph approached, making sure that the table was constantly standing between them.

Her eyes flicked behind her, towards the kitchen. A wooden block filled with specialty knives was perched near the sink—mainly for cutting fish and stringy meats.

Aleph noticed her looking in that direction. **"One of those limitations is that you cannot alter your surroundings too drastically. Attacking me in this place will not work. The most we can do here is talk. It would be in your benefit to listen."**

He then pulled out one of the chairs, expressly taking care not to pick the chair at the head of the table. Softly, he lowered himself into the seat. Every action, despite the bulky frame of his armor, was carried out without noise! Aleph then perfunctorily folded his hands in front of him, placing them onto the table, as casually as if he was expecting a waiter to come by and take an order of food from him.

Roahn was obviously mistrustful of the man, but no longer was her arm throbbing. Her head had cleared completely, leaving her in a plane of near-enlightenment. Slowly, carefully, she treaded to the table and took the chair at the opposite of where Aleph sat. She placed her left arm deliberately in front of her, so that Aleph could clearly see it. Her reasoning for doing so was obvious—she had tilted her entire body to give that side of her a better view.

Aleph did not move his head to take a look at the appendage, but he did appear to emit a brief sigh. A tiny bob of the shoulders. A twitch of the head.

"**How you must hate me. You've encapsulated the comprehensiveness of a singular emotion and folded it again and again to fit in the palm of that hand."**

Roahn narrowed her eyes.

"Hate barely scratches the surface of what I feel for you."

"**Perhaps it is justified. Losing a part of your body is not just a trauma, it is a violation. One that I know just as well as you."**

"I doubt that," Roahn hissed, heart pounding in her chest. "You ordered your cronies to keep me restrained while one of them bit my arm off! You left me there… lying in my own blood… to be ruined by my weak immune system… and you could not have cared less. You _never_ had to go through anything like that!"

"**I offered you mercy. Whereas some of my more reactionary subordinates would have ended your life without a second thought on Luna, I prevented them from doing so. Or did you choose to conveniently forget such a fact?"**

"You speak as if, this entire time, you've been doing me a _favor_," Roahn growled.

For the first time, a slight surge of breath escaped from Aleph's vocabulator. It sounded… almost like a chuckle, but Roahn could not be sure of it.

"**This entire time, I have been cultivating the circumstances for this dialogue to take place,**" he said, helmet tipping down sinisterly. **"I never intended to have you killed, Roahn'Shepard. You're too important to be ignominiously annihilated on some backwater planet. No, your purpose will continue to drive you long after we part ways today. Though you may assume my actions on that moon were of a benevolent sort, you may soon learn that my intentions rather reflect greatly on the value of foresight."**

Something was very wrong, here. Obscured alarms were ringing in Roahn's head, too opaque and shrouded in layers and layers of interlacing questions for her to make sense of things. She had to fight to control her breathing.

"Then what makes me so important that you had to construct this elaborate scheme just so we can talk?" Roahn snarled, a bite encroaching onto her words. "Is it my name? Because I'm a '_Shepard_'?"

Aleph let a courteous beat pass before responding.

"**Your heritage admittedly plays a part, but its weight as a factor in my plan is smaller than you might think."**

Roahn gave a sneer, not buying it. Once again, decisions were being rendered once more, without her consent, just because of the fact that she had been born under circumstances that were naturally out of her control at the onset. Genetics, destiny, heredity, whatever crap Aleph was using to make his ruminations a reality were all a farce at Roahn's expense! This galaxy saw her as a joke, an unworthy wielder of a namesake.

"Then…" Roahn nearly roared, "…how exactly do I fit into this plan of yours? This… Tranquil, or whatever it is?"

Aleph seemed to expand proudly at the mere suggestion to elaborate. **"The Tranquility. My answer to the galaxy's fragmentation."**

"It seems to me that _you're_ the one who's fragmenting it."

"**A civilization is dependent on balance. Dependent on the interplay between knowledge, hierarchies, and governments. A delicate system that is always in flux, but is always moving towards the centerpoint where all its characteristics merge and counter each other perfectly. And if one civilization topples, another rises to take its place. No one wants to break past the layers of sentimentality and fear of the unknown to risk damaging the social structures already in place, despite the level of decay that has set in. The Tranquility will help break those barriers for everyone, show the galaxy what a better civilization is capable of."**

"Wax philosophical all you want," Roahn growled, a crazed smile borne from her incredulity coming to her face. "That tells me nothing, nor does it explain where you or I fit in here."

Aleph's hands broke apart, now laying upward. A silent plea.

"**It takes a certain mind to accept unfortunate truths. I believe you have that sort of mind, that disposition. You have an independence, a confidence that seems to have been inherited from your family. It is… a welcoming combination. You can **_**understand**_**, Roahn'Shepard, as I have. You might find we share many more similarities."**

Roahn recoiled backward. "We are nothing alike!"

Aleph then straightened, firelight from the sun slashing off his wrists in twin glints. **"Then allow me to provide the beginnings of the proof to bolster my statement."**

A small omni-tool icon appeared over the edge of Aleph's thumb, glowing a bright red. He depressed the singular button with the tiniest gesture. There was an unexpected metallic clunking noise, loud enough to cause Roahn to jump in her seat. Before her eyes, the quarian saw Aleph's domed helmet, glistening with its mirrored surface, break into segmented pieces as if it had shattered, yet it was still being held in its shape. Then the pieces started to retract, being held along an underlying framework. The shards of the covering passed down on a railed track, slotting below the armor's collar with a series of skeletal clicks, revealing a nightmare underneath the remains of the helmet.

Roahn could not stop herself from staring.

* * *

In the next few moments, time seemed to come to a complete standstill.

The first thing she noticed was Aleph's eyes. They were eerily dissimilar, not at all like any eye she had ever seen before. They did not seem to have pupils—what passed as his sclera was a clash of two vibrant colors, a dark bloodclay and a swelling bruise-like purple. The two colors each made up half of his "eyes" meeting together in the middle like two dollops of acrylic paint, but never merging. The colors gently swirled in a tragic dance, a parting at arm's length, very much like oil and water.

A dark gray faceplate had been permanently sealed over his features, sans the eyes. Heavy metal. The kind you could make precise military ordinance out of—it vaguely had a skull-like shape, all its features were rounded off. A clear TransMet (Transparent Metal) layer covered that. Multiple holographic icons, biorhythm readouts, conscious streams of data, and quantified equation functions cluttered the inside of the clear shield. Highways of glowing circuitry crept around the back of Aleph's head. Two speakers situated at his ears—his audio receivers. Tiny wires pumping blue liquid from the corners of his "jaw" down his neck. Filtered breathing apparatus vents at his chin—soft intakes could finally be discerned from the slotted openings. The structure of Aleph's head was of a vague and subtle complexity. Several different parts could be discerned, but the precise application and construction of it betrayed the level of thought and care that had gone into designing his head. His entire body, for that matter.

Aleph's eyes did not betray varied emotions. They lacked a clear point for Roahn to latch onto. If she peered closely, she could see a ring of reddened flesh—exposed muscle—beyond the gaps in Aleph's faceplate. His eyes contained a brimming furiosity, despite their lack of emoting. A self-contained and indigent anger that had only grown and grown after being locked away for so long.

As she stared at the cyborg, Roahn became dimly aware that she had gone agape.

"Who… _are_ you?" she whispered, mesmerized.

Aleph's eyes slowly blinked. Raw, skinless muscle moistening damaged tissues.

"I am Aleph," he said matter-of-factly.

His voice startled Roahn—it lacked the throbbing bass modulation that had given every single one of his words a ruthless and unrelenting inflection. Now… it was a very light tone. Delicate and perhaps a little cunning in its delivery. Still an electronic resonance at the edge, but the shift in tonality completely threw off the quarian.

Roahn still had not recovered from the shock. "_What_ are you?"

"The remains of something once human."

The quarian became agonizingly aware of her left hand, resting upon the table. She gave each digit a minute flex. Staring at Aleph's own appendages, she could easily envision the intricate imbroglio of metal, wires, and electrodes all connected in an artful marriage that coursed through the man's body, connecting what little flesh remained of his body, keeping him alive. Fearful, she wondered if Aleph's appearance was representative of a distant future or if it served as a warning.

Aleph then made a show of considering his hands in stout detail, circumspect reflection. "You are not the only one who fears what the outside world can do to you, Roahn'Shepard. It is an affliction made known to you from the very moment you are born. I was not as fortunate. This form… was never my choice. In the end, it became a necessity."

A tender sucking of air from Aleph's vocabulator protruded through the stillness of the interior space. Display icons blinked around his eyes before he continued.

"I could have never foreseen succumbing to an illness on the edge of an unfamiliar world, one that my race happens to be extremely susceptible to. Far away from medical attention, the virus festered in my body. Multiplied within me until I was near the brink of death. I was looked after by colonists to the best of their ability, but when it became clear they had neither the medicine or the expertise to treat me, they sent for the Alliance. But by then, it was too late. The virus had reached my nervous system. I lost the use of my limbs, of many of my organs. The Alliance managed to forestall the pathogen, but they could not reverse the damage. They declared me a biohazard and placed my remains in a suspended animation tube filled with liquid nutrients. For years I floated there, unable to sleep, unable to die. I wanted nothing more than for death to take me—I recall spending long hours screaming at the scientists past the liquid barrier, but they never listened. They simply deactivated my audio channel to let me flounder in my own misery. They could not bear to listen to one's hopeless wails."

It then occurred to Roahn that she was now looking upon Aleph in a _vulnerable_ state. One that he had willingly revealed to her. Mask off, gaze averted, his recounting made him seem almost… sympathetic. Almost. In her heart she would always see him as the man who upended her entire life, yet she never expected to be exposed to his reasonings. The essence of the beast itself.

"Then…" Roahn rasped, "…you should already know the depths of how one can possibly abhor another. You've been exposed to that hate."

But Aleph surprised her by shaking his head.

"It was not hate. It was the purest expression of despondency. I had no one to blame for my affliction. No one to focus all my loathing on except myself." Aleph gave a distinct pause before his posture seemed to brighten. "But eventually, my anguish waned. I destroyed the barrier of grief that surrounded my existence. I decided to make the best of my situation—I needed to seek a use, a resolution within myself. For months on end, I had been monitored by Alliance Intelligence—under their care, I was technically classified as one of their assets. They had assured me during my treatment that, when I was ready, they could use my mind to help humanity under my own free will. To be an operative for the Alliance—a benefit for my race. I wanted to be productive. I wanted to help a cause."

_Just like me_, Roahn realized. _From the Defenders to Umbra. A vagabond passing from banner to banner, desperate to lend our skills._

How it tore her apart to admit that Aleph had a point!

"I was put onto small tasks. Parsing information to decipher the locations of military installations our supposed 'allies'—the Council races—had tried to discretely install. Soon my responsibilities grew and others took notice. One man in particular, a person of extreme interest, saw the reports I was releasing and wanted to meet me. In his current station, no one could refuse such a demand. When he finally saw me in my ruined form, he took pity on me. He commissioned the top engineering corps the Alliance had to offer to build a body—a suit of armor—for me to use. He wanted to work together, to operate in a cooperative unit. I was touched at his generosity. How could I say no to such an offer?"

Aleph sucked in another breath. Clouded eyes looked everywhere and nowhere at once.

"That man's name… was David Anderson."

Mere mention of the name conjured up images Roahn had long assumed had been lost for eternity. Sitting upon her father's lap in his office, a young girl, an old picture frame clenched between her small hands. _"Who's this, dad?"_ Her father somberly taking the photo from her, a distant smile on his face, but one whose emotions were too subtle for her to realize at that time. _"An old friend, my dear Roahn._ _My commanding officer—"_

"—Admiral David Anderson," Roahn spoke sluggishly, as if awakening from a deep dream. "The first human councilor? My… my father's old captain?"

"A great man," Aleph said as he now unexpectedly rose from his chair, politely pushing it out before setting it back underneath the table. Warily, Roahn followed his lead, copying him, but strangely feeling no danger. "He and I met shortly after your father was shot down by the Collectors," he said as he slowly proceeded to walk to the door of the deck. "Of course, the good commander and I have never met, though I have long been his shadow on the other side of the curtain. That was the mandate that David Anderson put me to task—to be Shepard's overarching support no matter the cost. He had me scour the galaxy for clues to the next big threat. The Reapers, yes, but there were rumors that a rogue paramilitary group called Cerberus was making strange movements—mobilization without reason. I deemed it prudent to investigate them first. In response, the two of us created our own little insurgency group within the Alliance. To use our black ops tradecraft for the explicit purpose of disrupting Cerberus operations. With that, the name for our group had to reflect the theme of sending one mythological beast out to fight another. So we called it _Chimera_."

More worms of tortured memories frantically burrowing from the gray matter of her brain. These were of a gigantic steel creature, rimmed with eight blazing oculi. The Legionnaire. His unearthly roars still lingered in her very head, a soulless monster hell-bent on torturing her family, chasing her from world to world, with a weary father the only barrier between her and certain death.

Larsen. The Legionnaire. He had been behind it all from the beginning?! Her father's exile, her mother's death, all those events that had been predetermined before her birth, he had been the catalyst for that fateful path?

Aleph now walked through the glass threshold. The wood of the deck creaked with every step he took. Roahn cautiously followed him out but he did not seem to be paying much attention to her anymore. He took a hand and slowly slid it along the railing, staring at endless points out beyond the ocean, out where the stars gleamed and where sky and sea met. The crux of the galaxy's clouds brimmed the expansive surface, deeply reflected in the purpled and drenched air. A burst of wind pulled at Aleph's cloak, giving it a brief flap.

"It is… a beautiful home," he stated admiringly. "A fitting place to raise a family. Your parents chose well."

"That your lackey wasted no time in _destroying_ all those years ago," Roahn spat, yearning to test whether she could swing her arm, blade of energy surging past her wrist, to cleave at Aleph's back with a fatal crackle of electricity.

Deliberate taps of armored fingers across the delicately lacquered wood resounded. "Yet here it stands, rebuilt, the memories all intact. The actions of the Legionnaire were not of my direction, Roahn'Shepard, I hope you can at least believe that."

"Believe? He was _Chimera!_"

"When the war ended," Aleph explained, "the Alliance had to divest several of its projects to the private sector to make up liquid funds. Chimera was one of those projects—an action beyond my control. I still maintained an indirect influence, but its infrastructure was no longer solely under my command. Admiral Anderson had also perished during the war, leaving me as the last remaining creator."

"That you let spiral out of control as a terrorist group," Roahn accused as she also approached the railing, though her gaze was not out towards the sea, an otherwise familiar view that had been a lynchpin of her entire childhood.

"Perhaps I was foolish to provide Chimera's operations with additional independence after the Reapers had been defeated. It would have prevented the 'esteemed' Senator Larsen from utilizing its assets to persecute you and your family. But the organization was more important than you might have initially realized. It was from _my_ intelligence that the Alliance was able to realize the existence of the Lazarus Project—the operation that brought your father back from the dead. I wonder if your father ever wondered why _Councilor_ Anderson had such a subdued reaction when they reunited back on the Citadel after his untimely passing? He probably never told you that story. But I was there in an adjacent room when it had happened, watching from the shadows. Anderson had a pleased expression on his face, not at all surprised, when Shepard walked in through that door, returned from the grave. Shepard was none the wiser—he never asked any questions on it."

Aleph let that kernel of information sink in, satisfied that he was slowly absorbing Roahn's attention.

"Shepard has always felt my influence, but never bothered to question it. The data I had decoded during the war was vital to him carrying out his plan to end the Reapers once and for all. The location of the various Cerberus bases for him to destroy. The decoding of the Mars archives—the very data stores that led to the discovery of the Crucible. They _all_ came from my decryption efforts. Even…" he took a breath, "…the nature behind the artifacts the Reapers left behind."

Now Aleph turned towards Roahn, melded eyes expectant. The young quarian unconsciously felt for the twisted and damaged lump of metal in her pocket, as if her hand would act as a shield, permanently spiriting away from the cyborg's brutal grip.

As if his own vision could pierce metal and flesh, Aleph raised a finger, pointing to directly where Roahn was keeping the artifact on her person. "You still haven't figured out why I have been so dedicated to the pursuit of these fragments, have you?"

Listless, Roahn shook her head.

"Very well. I promised you comprehension. I will help peel back a layer of the shrouded intricacy."

* * *

_An explosion of stars. A deranged and savage flickering of light across the eons. Beyond the reach of the galaxy, cradled only by the birthing of energy and heat. Steadfast perspectives contemplated silently as the universe grew and molded itself into its splayed image. Molten rock and metal collided, cooled, solidified, and eventually crumbled into dust. Suns expanded, consuming their enormous reserves of fuel, until they tapered off, either leaving their dense cores behind or ripping apart space-time in wonderous detonations. Graveyards of dust blossomed into flowers of color—enormous nebulas. Discs of pure illumination were sent slinging across the endless black—the galaxies embarking upon their forever journey._

_And for the lucky worlds that found themselves precariously perched in their own Zone of creation, veils of atmosphere rallied around the cooling surface. Volcanos soon rose from the crust, conduits to the unstable mantle below. Venting gasses formed the troposphere. Water vapor from these gases, as well as from passing comets, condensed and created oceans. Microscopic life resided deep in these waters, increasing in cell count after millions and millions of years. Soon these lifeforms were complex enough to take to the land, decay, and die, their bodies fertilizing the soil for new plants to feed and grow healthy upon._

_A cycle within cycles. The micro within the macro. Each living being a miracle unto itself. Precious more than any gemstone._

_Civilizations followed similar paths. Cities rose from nothing as the collective consciousness of a single people grew. Suns rose and set on their birth and eventual collapse. Sometimes new cities replaced the old. Sometimes they were left to decay. But each race continued to expand their knowledge, to grow as one. A process repeated across time, independent and separated by lightyears. The thinkers flourished, as did the optimists, and the dreamers. Invisible webs soon interconnected the stars, linked with the progress of invention, of daring._

_A perfect ecosystem._

_She—there was no Roahn anymore, just a presence—then heard a voice._

"Before the Reapers encroached, there were the Leviathans. The original caretakers of the galaxy. A true apex race. Desperate to solve the coming destruction of the other races they used as thralls, cycle after cycle, they were determined to create an Intelligence to prevent the needless devastation."

_Deep underwater on a nameless world. Multi-eyed, as large as skyscrapers. Floating under intense pressure. Crustacean. Primordial._

_The voice proceeded._

"That Intelligence served as the basis for the first Reaper. But the Leviathans needed materials. Raw materials in greater quantities that had ever been collected before. It was a long and arduous process—it took more than one cycle for the Leviathans to finally reach the threshold they set."

_Men and women attacking sharp rock walls with crude tools by the thousands. Race had no bearing. Deep in holes within their own planets. Choking on dust. Killing their worlds. Stripping them bare. Collapsing one on top of the other, exhausted. Dying. Clothes rotting from their backs. Mindless masses of naked bodies. All for ore. Precious, precious ore. Massive shipping lanes, frigates full of resources, all destined to their masters for their dark work._

"The fanatics among the thralls were keen to show devotion to their masters. Believed they had been enlightened, they crafted monuments and trophies out of the materials they unearthed, to demonstrate the depths of their belief to themselves and other followers."

_She spoke._ "Artifacts." _Her own voice sounded distant_.

_Instruments of diamond chipped away at globular spheres. Dark flakes dusted heavy stone benches. Carving intricate patterns. Polishing them to a bright sheen. Stacking them on top of obelisks whereupon words of languages lost flowed texts of love and sacrifice._

"The Leviathans knew the breadth of the material's capabilities while their slaves remained ignorant. Only the apogee of all life had determined the curious properties surrounding the substance that would soon become a Reaper."

_Listless bolts of red electricity dribbled upon monstrous blocks of obsidian. Floating Leviathans wordlessly surrounded it, studying it closely. Stone took on water-like properties. Claws then began to protrude from the semi-liquid black block. Electricity and wires carved their way into the gelatinous mix, embedding into one leg… two legs… three legs… until the very image of a Leviathan had been replicated in a frightful and synthetic form._

"The material is malleable. Able to be manipulated. It shares a connection between everything else that is made from that material. And that connection is broader than you can imagine. The Reapers had purposefully manipulated this galaxy, upon overthrowing their creators, to ensure that civilizations would develop along their desired paths. They forced us to use their technology to achieve their own ends. Don't you see? The cultivation of our collective awareness was all based on this technology! The genesis for our modern galaxy. Unknowingly, we have been among the progenitor of how our scientific advancement came into being. Anything that is comprised of such technology shares a generic link, hidden in the atomic structure. And I have cracked that link."

_Thick tendrils of the clouded and sable material flowed towards a central point, like arteries connecting to a heart. Flanked by columns of red light in beams along the ground. The point grew as it accumulated more mass, growing and growing into a tall and intimidating pillar. Whispers grew from it. It thrummed with an embedded energy. A magnetic aura, imperceptible at first but slowly growing at the edge of the mind. A tickle that could not be shaken._

"A device of my own creation. A Monolith. Both a conduit and an amplifier for the immense energy inherent in the material. It is made out of the artifacts; they were the lone objects remaining in the galaxy with the highest concentration of the substance, which is why I have been searching for them. I have been able to connect my tech with that of the Monolith, enabling me to tap into that endless well of energy that the Reapers had been feeding on. It is not finished yet—I am still missing one critical component: a conglomerate of organic material to expose it to all permutations of intelligent life. To make its reach all the more absolute. With the Monolith, I will be able to manipulate all technology that is based off the Reaper material. Upon its completion, I will have unlocked total control over every being in the galaxy."

_The aura expands. It takes up a luminescence. A gleaming shield of cosmic brilliance. It pulsates with a powerful shockwave, striking through time and space in seconds._

"You don't believe me."

_She speaks_. "You think that all you can grasp is within your reach. All you could do with this Monolith is inconvenience us. It isn't the doomsday device you hope it is."

"Isn't it?"

_Patient. Amused. Soft._

_Her voice penetrates the void._ "What could you possibly control?"

_He waits. Prolonging the moment._

"Everything. Everyone."

_She hisses_. "Liar."

"It is too late. The connection is in you already, as it is in everyone else in this galaxy. It has been inside you all along. At no moment in your life could you have escaped the Monolith's sway."

_Blinding arcs—a current—race along premade pathways. Surging across bone. Punching through muscle. Tangling through veins. Flowing with blood. Surges upon surges upon surges, all coalescing to one singular point. A fatal cataclysm. A self-imposed destruction. A tranquil pressure._

_She is livid_. "Stop with your lies!"

_He is merciless in his tempo._

"The technology, Roahn'Shepard. The technology is inside you. People have willingly been putting such technology into their very bodies before you were even a thought. They are expansive. They run through every limb. Cradle every organ. They were meant to better ourselves but at no point did anyone ask if they had a weakness. I told you that all technology is based off the Reaper material. What do you think is in your body right at this moment?"

_She wants to shut her eyes but she is lidless_. "Tech? What tech are you talking about?! There is nothing inside me that can connect to the Monolith! Nothing except…"

_She stops herself, remembering horribly. Recalling, almost in afterthought. The swell of her horror approaches painfully. Because she now realizes the truth._

_She swallows. It hurts._ "…except… my implants."

_A tender intake of breath streams in a deathly slither._

"Implants. The very devices that were intended to better society. From as simple as promoting hormone growth in organs, to automatically providing quarians like you with skeletal/muscle boosters to combat gravitational atrophy, to allowing biotics to harness the power of dark energy at their fingertips. Everyone has been implanted in our collective civilization. Everyone. And where do you think that technology was based from? The Reapers. And by extension, the Leviathans. That is the connection. That is what binds me to everyone."

_A realization_. "The people at that colony. Admiral Vulkov. They died without marks on them but we never could figure out why. It was you. You killed them with your Monolith."

"An untraceable death. That is what I am able to provide with the Monolith. At my current level, I can only influence a local sector within my proximity but upon its completion I will be able to touch every single being anywhere in this galaxy with merely a thought! The power that the Monolith exudes is systemic. Unforgiving. It amplifies and redirects the current in one's implants, causing fatal buildups of energy in vulnerable areas—the brain especially. Their implants essentially overload, killing them instantly, but it leaves very little evidence in the process. It was how I took care of Senator Larsen all those years ago, for spearheading that little debacle which involved your family. For my part, you should be grateful."

_She reels. Speechless. Anxious to look at her own body and to see the rot underneath the suit, underneath the flesh._

_But the voice proceeds._

"There will be those that see the Monolith as a weapon of terror. But it is capable of so much more. It has the power to kill, yes, but also to transform. To present a new way of thinking about our reality. It can rip objects from one place and transmit them to another in seconds! White holes, Roahn'Shepard. Singularities where only light and matter can escape. You've seen that power in action before. Imagine what it could provide to a galaxy fully at peace with itself. When we become a singularity, only then will we be ready for what the Monolith holds."

_She wants to respond, but something is tearing at her right this second. Ripping her from this state._

_She opens her mouth to scream but cannot find the breath._

* * *

Roahn blinked, uncertain of what she just beheld. The clamor of waves filled her ears—she was back on Rannoch. The railing she was leaning against seemed real, _felt_ real. Sprays of sea mist drenched her visor. Looking up, she saw Aleph standing just feet away, staring out towards the ocean, as if the previous few moments did not resonate upon him.

"Even now," Aleph said, "the Monolith's effects resonate upon you. How else could you imagine being in this place at this moment?" He spread his arms, gesticulating to the seemingly open vista of Rannoch all around them. "A cleverly crafted fiction, all made possible by the Monolith. The implants in your eyes have been receiving false signals, obscuring reality with an elaborate filter that your own mind helped create. Do you find it ironic to realize that the elaborate equipment that was applied to your body has had a fatal flaw this whole time—a backdoor towards the manipulation of reality itself? The synthetic fibers that are woven into your skin, the micro-weave that reinforces your skeleton, the input tolerances that read your neural patterns, all cybernetics are irreversibly linked. And you… being a quarian, have been joined to so many cybernetic upgrades to communicate with that enviro-suit of yours that you have a greater proportion of such implants compared to any other race in the galaxy."

Not counting the obvious. Roahn looked down to her left hand, to the elaborate contraption that remained melded against her arm. A fabrication of metal as an extension of flesh. The solution turned weakness. The so-called courteous gesture.

"I'll kill you," Roahn growled as she slowly drew her eyes back up, her fear evaporating as quickly as the droplets of sea air in the morning sun. "Give me the chance and I'll plunge my blade straight through that putrid heart of yours. I'll tear you apart, piece by piece, until you finally understand the power I've had at my disposal all along."

Aleph did not appear intimidated. Even without the helmet, his expression was steadfast. His body language conveyed almost a bemused intrigue. As if he regarded the quarian as a curiosity. An experiment to be observed behind clear partitions.

Then he slowly shook his head. "But you do _not_ understand the power you have at your disposal. Strictly speaking, organics have not yet deciphered the riddle that leads to the uplift of all life. Human, turian, salarian, asari, batarian… and quarian. Quarians especially. They all have stubbornly _limited_ themselves deliberately upon their supposed perception that they have met the threshold for their natural evolution. I believe they are wrong."

"You believe a lot of things," Roahn scowled, hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I'm not so easily swayed."

"You speak the truth, which is why I would be remiss if we did not part without a more significant demonstration of my conviction."

In a dramatic display, Aleph grandly lifted his hand, large fingertips splayed wide apart. Roahn stared at the rising limb, an ominous sensation beginning to overcome her. The cyborg's hand seemed prime to pluck the sun from its fateful perch, the edges around his fingers becoming blurry against the fierce light… or from a different type of energy.

"Consider this a gift," he then said.

His hand balled into a fist in the span of a second.

A high-pitched ringing in Roahn's ears turned into a full-bore scream, paralyzing and deafening, as something inside her head began to burn white-hot. The incinerating sensation boiled its way down Roahn's spine, spreading to her bones, to her extremities. It felt like she was cooking from the inside out.

Roahn immediately clasped her hands to her temples and let out a frantic scream, dropping to her knees. White burn spots clouded her vision as the deck of her Rannoch home flickered in and out from the scalding sands of the moon upon where her true "reality" resided. Dark wood… sand and water. Dark wood… sand and water. Two images overlaid, both fighting for supremacy. The dream, the filter, was tearing itself apart.

_Help! Help! Help!_

Charring and scorching, the combined heat seemed to flow and _become_ Roahn. She could imagine her skin blistering, vein-like patterns turning black from where the highways of pain twisted and curled. It felt like something in her body was about to give out. The agony was too much to bear! She was blinded by her tears, by her own tragic wounds, that she could barely see past the brutal paroxysm to understand that whatever was currently aggrieving her was sourced from directly inside her body.

The connection. The weakness!

_What is happening to me?!_

* * *

"Something's wrong!" Garrus hissed, lightly jostling the rifle against his shoulder as his finger inched closer to the trigger. "Roahn's collapsed on the ground."

"Jesus," Sam breathed next to him, eyes glued to his omni-tool. "Her heartrate just went haywire!"

Garrus gave a quiet snarl as he leaned forward, eye against the scope, levelling the crosshairs towards the edge of one of the shunting towers of black rock, watching the shadows of fabric wisp just around the corner, out of reach.

"That does it. I have to take a shot. If that bastard's hurting her—"

The doctor suddenly grabbed for the turian's arm—tight grip that nearly caused the lanky alien to cry out.

"Wait! Just wait!"

"Wait?!" Garrus was incredulous, breaking from the scope to stare at the human in doubt. "I can't just lay up here and do nothing while we-!"

Sam stabbed a finger at the readouts on his omni-tool. "She's not being physically hurt. No breaches in her enviro-suit. No detected pathogens in her blood. Trauma sites are clear. Her vitals just took an intense spike."

"But—"

"You take that shot in panic and he'll end up hurting Roahn for real!" Sam chastised. "She's still alive. She may be in a state, but she's alive. We have to keep it that way, even if it means we wait."

* * *

Roahn blinked. With a feeble gasp, in rushed filtered air through the vents in her mask. Stale and chalky, her throat felt parched, a desert.

But the pain had stopped. Abruptly, like a switch had just been thrown.

Dazed, she heaved, trying to catch her breath back. She soon noticed that her hands had clawed into the sand right below her. Six wells of water each billowed up from the holes her fingers had made into the ground.

On weak knees, she rose. Trembling and tired. Every nerve felt raw and tender. Just moving served to dredge out fresh pain.

"What…" she mumbled thickly, "…what did you _do_ to me?"

The vile voice of the damned and profane cut through the agony.

"**In time, you will find that out."**

Roahn looked up. As they were no longer in the implant-driven dream state, Aleph had returned to his original position, helmet back on his head. He stood with his hands behind his back, his frightful appearance hidden once more, replaced by the reflective and ever-seeing visage that had churned so much fear and hate in the quarian.

Clutching at herself, Roahn shook her head in confusion. "What do you _want_ with me? Do you just want to see me suffer? Is that it? Do you enjoy seeing me like this? Torn to pieces and losing my mind? Why not kill me? Finish the job you started? If this torment is all you have in mind for me, then at least have the _balls_ to admit such a thing to my face!"

Aleph tilted his head. A ray of sun speared off his helmet at an angle, momentarily blinding Roahn.

"**I told you, your death would be meaningless to me, Roahn'Shepard."**

"All evidence to the contrary," the quarian spat.

"**No? I would have thought my actions would have sufficed as an answer. I am not looking for mindless slaughter. Yours would bring about more harm than good, even for me."**

"And _this?_" Roahn savagely bit as she raised her left arm, sending a glint of light back towards the demon, shining from her prosthesis. "This is not perceived as mindless?"

"**From your point of view, perhaps. From mine, it was a necessity."**

"I fail to see how."

"**The Monolith is only as potent as its creator allows it. The technology is dependent on accumulating organic tissue—to take such matter upon itself—and essentially absorb the DNA. Learn it, in a sense. The connection between me, the Monolith, and other organics increases in effectiveness the more DNA it is exposed to. The Monolith hosts a 'conglomerate' of combined genetics within itself, taking each race into account. For example, prior to our first meeting, I would not have been able to establish as strong of a hold over your implants, but once I added the tissue that I took from you on Luna to the Monolith, that gave me access to your entire genetic profile, as well as that of the quarian race. The Monolith is able to decipher and break down everything that a gene is comprised of. The genetic codes. The relationship between nature and nurture. The values of parentage. All the possible combinations of genotypes and phenotypes. Traits. Amino acids. Instinctual behavior. It absorbs it all. And the more I feed it, the greater the conglomerate moves towards its completion."**

Aleph then slowly looked out to the right, slightly above the horizon, towards the raised line of mountains beyond the valley floor. Roahn dared not turn—Aleph appeared to be staring right where Garrus and the others were perched! Did he suspect something was amiss? Sweat clung to her forehead as the enormous being quietly returned his focus to her.

"**The conglomerate's completion remains the final task to ensure the Monolith's true power. Fortunately, I have since realized the last missing link to bridge the gap in the shared codex of all genes. The remaining hurdle towards what shall be the galaxy's answer to the question they never bothered to poise."**

A coldness came to Roahn. "You need to find the right people to add their genetic information to this thing. To make it… whole?"

"**Precisely,"** Aleph hissed. **"At its current level, completing the conglomerate would take me years and years of further work and study. But I soon realized something—upon adding your DNA to the Monolith, the readiness levels of what I had collected rose far beyond what my latest efforts had conjured. The gap closed far more rapidly than I had anticipated. It was the superiority of your nature, Roahn'Shepard. Your genes reflected an exposure to Reaper material—inherited from your mother, no doubt. The Monolith could sense that, recognize it, and quickly translate it. Proximity to the Reapers leaves a lasting effect—it damages tissue, memories, and genetic makeup down to the atomic level. It leaves scars—scars that can be passed down through genes. Our chemical structure carries quantified memories of past experiences… and the Reapers are indeed the key. It was the breakthrough I have been waiting… a long time for."**

The dome of pure speculum then lifted, all of space reflected upon its front. Aleph stared serenely to the sky, peering through rings of rock and dust, swarms of fiery balls of gas, and a tiny little glimmer that timidly blinked in the open air from far, far away—a ship languidly hovering overhead. The _Menhir_.

"**And you've brought all the pieces to me,"** he breathed.

Abruptly, savagely, Aleph then brough his head back down at the same time he clenched a fist, air distorting around it like a shimmer of heat. There was a ripping sound as the artifact in Roahn's pack tore a hole through it, pulled clean out by an invisible string. Roahn made an instinctive grab for it, but she was too slow, and the metallic lump quickly flew into Aleph's hand.

Not even looking at his prize, Aleph turned the artifact over in his fingers. **"I find it despairing that the powers that govern the galaxy, despite being given a second chance with their victory over the Reapers, have continually proved to have squandered such an opportunity. This should have been the birth of a true renaissance—to take advantage of the gift that your father helped to bestow. But the governments—the Council—they have shown that all they are concerned about is resetting everything back to the status quo. Only now, with their influence irreparably withered, they have resorted to outside help to enforce their mandates. Corporations and private armies. Institutions that care more about a positive quarterly statement than they would for progressive reformation."**

"_Your_ doing!" Roahn accused with a trembling finger. "You were the one who's been manipulating these corporations into doing business with the Council from the very start!"

"**And they accepted such business with open arms,"** Aleph said matter-of-factly. **"The capital all came from me. The guidance came from me. I set the backbone for this supposed 'new era' for our entire civilization. It was foolishly accepted by everyone without question. Yet my work was only built on the foundations of what others had previously attempted. The galaxy was always going to follow this route of constant conflict, trivial border warfare, and tribalism, even without my guiding hand. They would have forgotten the Reaper War in time and become complacent, conveniently ignorant of how close to destruction they had come. I have… simply pushed them down that path a little quicker."**

"You're wrong," a heated Roahn growled. "We—this galaxy—can show you otherwise. All of us are ready for our optimism to be rewarded! We are unable to forget that war."

Aleph spread his arms. **"Yet the process has already begun. Your father was exiled by his own people, prevented from ever returning to his homeworld without the threat of consequences. Your mother stepped away from her position to be with her husband, depriving the galaxy of two of the most influential people when it needed them the most: for the restoration. History is simply doing its work by slowly eliminating the influence your parents had on the war. No, Roahn'Shepard, it is you who are mistaken. This civilization is so eager to forget the calamity that they are willing to regress in order to reach that point. To return to an eternal cold war—simmering and subdued warfare and a state of semi-isolation. I am unwilling to accept this devolution. As I believe one who came before me has said, 'Cooperation furthers mutual goals.' It is time that the people were reminded of that fact."**

The faceless mask, a distorted reflection of the quarian's own, seemed to twist and rend itself in a smug delight. Roahn felt red sunlight warm the back of her _sehni_, gnawing teeth now churning in her stomach. She took a careful step forward.

"If you're so confident that this galaxy is destined for failure, why not try and resolve the problem without this elaborate scheme? All you're doing is making everything worse!"

But Aleph shook his head.

"**There is no other way. Unfortunately, history has proved that, in order to bring about great change, an entire populace has to be motivated with the same goal. A cataclysmic event is usually the vector for such change. In the right hands, it can promote unity."**

"Or chaos," Roahn breathed.

"**Then that is where my involvement is most important. The severity of such a catastrophe has to be taken into account in order for the motivating factor to be amplified. The Monolith will help me bring out such a tectonic shift in the established order. It is all part of the Tranquility I have envisioned."**

Aleph now seemed to ripple with power, a howling wind coursing through the metal of his body. Roahn felt herself shrink in the face of such atrocity, utterly convinced that the man in front of her was completely soulless, incapable of emotion.

"The Tranquility?"

"**The culmination of my searching. The cataclysmic event in question. The Tranquility is the beginning that will usher in a new era of peace in the galaxy, a new mindset of cooperation. But first, there must be suffering. The years to follow will be filled with pain, too. But I will bring about a colossal change that no one would dare to forget for millennia. This is the beginning of our enlightenment. Our renaissance."**

_He is insane_, Roahn thought, fears turning rigid and frozen in her system.

Aleph paused a beat before continuing.

"**With the Monolith, I will perform a light and systemic extermination of life in the galaxy. A small amount in prospect, given the larger picture of the universe. Millions of lives would not even register as a statistic to consider in the history of our turbulent galaxy. If you informed the populace about the slow elimination of such a high number of lives over a long period of time, such a revelation would be met with callously numb reactions. But… if they found out that all those lives were to be extinguished all at once? That is an event that cannot be discounted, Roahn'Shepard. That brings about true fear. That is the power of what I will be able to accomplish. Such an instantaneous loss has the capability to instill others to combat the oppressive efforts that have wronged them. To disillusion those who have willingly pulled the wool over their eyes by refusing to believe the galaxy is safe in its obsequious ways. The Tranquility will bring about an end to the perceived veil of safety, but it will motivate others to make such a state a reality. To end this fiction and give rise to a time rife with possibilities!"**

Words formed a mob around the battered mind of the quarian. Inwardly she reeled, feeling like she had been through hell and back. The concept… the scope… it was all madness, completely entangled in the bile and contempt of affairs that intimated a longing sense of disgust. Malice and cruelty disguised as mercy. To even comprehend that such a patient regard for dispensing pain was at all possible was nearly unthinkable.

The man's voice had never wavered this whole time. Roahn knew that Aleph was sure of his direction, unflappable in his beliefs. The destruction of innocents was the key to survival in his mind—the solution to the problem that she had ironically spent the last few years of her life searching for. If this was truly the key that unlocked the promise of peace, Roahn knew she would feel content at never being able to locate it. The very thought that she would have to sacrifice everything and everyone she cared about or loved—hell, she had already buried one friend in her mind just days earlier—was incomprehensible.

Her arm ached again, but so did her entire body. Was Aleph manipulating her implants again for sport? Thoughts of Garrus, her father, Korridon, Skye, and everyone else on the ship flashed through her head. And her mother… her _mother_. In that instant, she realized she had never felt a hate like this in her life before. She thought she had hated Aleph earlier. This putrid sensation that coursed through her body now was an indication that she had been very wrong.

"I won't let you kill millions of innocent people just to prove a point," Roahn said in defiance, her eyes narrowed in deadly slants. "I'll find out where you intend to strike and I will stop you. Wherever you go, I will stop you and I won't rest until you are dead at my feet."

A subtle emotion, something untranslatable, seemed to take a hold of Aleph. He stood there in quiet contemplation, head barely tilted, as if he was seeing Roahn in a different light.

"**I believe your conviction,"** he simply said. "**Your future efforts might not produce the intended results, but I am intrigued to find out what lengths you will go to in your attempt to stop the Tranquility."**

"Greater than you could ever imagine," Roahn breathed.

"**Then I look forward to seeing what you might conjure. You will fail at first, for the Tranquility will proceed as planned. There is no stopping it." **Aleph then made a deliberate step to the side, no longer blocking the view of the shuttle that lay on the great salt plain, with Korridon still bound inside it. When Roahn did not make a move, he gestured out through the razor-sharp fields of piercing rocks that slightly obscured the way. **"I did agree to let you depart with your crewmember. I would be remiss if I did not hold up my end of the bargain, after all."**

Roahn dug her heels into the sand for a quick moment. She glanced back and forth, expecting there to be a trick of some sort. It felt too easy, too straightforward. She would not have been surprised if, in the next second, Dark Horizon troops would deactivate their cloaking devices and show themselves all surrounding her, or if a hidden sniper would take a sudden shot towards her head. Or Aleph could simply waggle a finger and she would fall over dead from a brain aneurysm, her implants having burned a hole in a vital artery.

But, heart in her throat, she suddenly took off towards the shuttle.

Clumps of wet sand were thrown behind her as she ran. Roahn nearly tripped down a small hill after vaulting over a set of boulders, making it to the flat plain. The shuttle was only a couple of hundred meters away. Cloudy water splashed around her legs as she stomped through the white steppe, salt encrusting her boots and staining the glass of her visor. Her heartbeat thumped faster and faster, eyes blindingly open, as she closed the distance to the shuttle.

Heat surged in fragile and billowing waves all around her, mirages playing tricks with her vision. Lakes of crystal, mountains of rubber. Everything seemed to take on a wobbling haze. Hallucinations from fatigue? Roahn tried to gulp it all down, but her throat was so parched that the act of doing so felt like she had swallowed a fistful of nails.

As she neared, she could finally behold the features upon Korridon's terrified face as he sat chained in his seat within the shuttle. His orange facepaint had been chipped severely. The blood from his wound had been cleaned away, though a gaping hole in his carapace lingered upon his forehead, covered by a bandage. His bulging eyes widened upon seeing her approach. He was shaking his head, shouting something unintelligible—he had a gag over his mouth.

"Korr!" Roahn cried as she got within several meters. She almost took a tumble again as she reached the edge of the shuttle's cabin, stumbling to her feet just in time to prevent herself from falling. She scrambled into the ship. "Korr! I'm here! I'm here to get you—"

But the turian was still screaming something, his gagged mouth completely incapable of pronouncing words. As Roahn's hands reached out to pry the muzzle from his mouth, she was in for a shock as her hands _slipped_ through the man. Surges of static angrily buzzed at the intruding touch and the entire body of the turian flickered—an image locked in continuous reset.

"What the-?!" Roahn gaped.

The body of Korridon jittered, went rigid, and finally turned a pure white. The outline of the turian blazed in an intense light for three seconds before it abruptly vanished.

A holographic emitter—spherical and layered with orange and black glass—tumbled onto the now-empty seat which the image of Korridon had just occupied, its anti-grav capabilities inactive as a result of its dead battery.

"No… no!" Roahn roared as she whirled around, hands locked in fierce claws.

Enraged at the deceit, she leapt from the shuttle and moved towards Aleph, who had seemingly walked from thin air to be back within a few yards from her.

"You lied to me!" she screamed. "You said you would give him back!"

From the cyborg's vocabulator rushed a thin stream of noise that Roahn only belatedly interpreted as laughter. She stopped in her tracks instantly. She had never heard Aleph laugh before. Now that she did, she wanted to drown the noise out however possible. It sounded like broken teeth gnashing on rough stones.

"**You were the one to default on the deal before we had even faced each other here,"** Aleph pointed out after his little string of merriment. **"I did tell you to come alone."**

So he had known all along. Known… and had said nothing. Right away, Roahn knew that her contingency had failed. Had she just doomed three more of her friends?

_Garrus. Oh no…_

"**They'll receive their judgment for your impatience,"** Aleph sighed as he tipped his head upward again, gaze locked onto a singular gleaming object in the sky, a speck so small but so precious that he could just reach out and pluck it from the vast reaches of space. **"As for the missing piece that I need to complete my Monolith…"**

Aleph tilted his head back down and cocked his head. Roahn wondered if that was the cyborg's version of a _smile._

"…**your **_**friend**_** was very helpful on that front."**

Aleph gave another slight gesture of his hand. Streams of light like liquid began to flow down across his front. Melting his outlines. Fading them into nothingness. Before Roahn's eyes, Aleph had gone from physically standing in front of her to disappearing in the span of seconds. No trace except footprints remained after the watery film of luminescence had dissipated, leaving the quarian all alone.

Roahn made helpless noises of panic as she staggered around, whirling in all directions. Questions began to pile up in her head, a tender stack with a poor base.

_Korridon… helpful? What does that… what did he tell Aleph?!_

She used a few more precious moments to mull over the cryptic nature of the man's sentence before a frantic thought impacted square in her head.

"Garrus!" she lifted her omni-tool and screamed, "_get out of there!_"

* * *

"Do you hear a rushing sound?" Sam asked after lifting the macro goggles from his face, tiredly rubbing at his eyes while keeping an ear perked.

Garrus had to look away from his scope once more in order to bow his head for a moment in agitation.

"Sam, I swear if you keep on blurting—"

But the turian did cease in his speaking once he indeed picked up a noise quickly encroaching into his audible range. A savage whistling. A screaming, almost. Garrus whirled his head around to search for the source until he finally spotted something in the sky behind him.

His eyes widened, mandibles tightening.

"Move!" he bellowed as he grabbed the edges of Sam's jacket and yanked as hard as he could.

The short-range missile slammed into the ground in the space that Garrus and Sam had just occupied. Dirt and stone erupted in a brown geyser—charred and smoking bits of clay-like loam tumbled around the two, who were lying prostrate. Ears ringing, both blearily sat back up, vision graying in and out as they blinked dust out of their eyes.

"Arrrgh!" Sam yowled out loud. "What… what the fuck was _that?!_"

Then there was the growling sound of rockets.

"Fangs out. Bogeys padlocked," a voice intoned from a short distance, tinny and in a light drawl. "Alpha-Two is on station."

A figure gently floated down from up above, propelled by twin plumes of sunburst flame upon the ends of a contraption's skeletal wings. The Aeronaut, twin submachine guns in hand, pushed through the column of smoke that he had just created seconds earlier, lenses of his helmet fixated upon his prey on the ground.

"I had hoped we would see each other again, Vakarian," the winged mercenary rasped, bobbing to and fro in the air, supported by his jetpack's brute force, a howling emitting from the engines. He spun his weapons on his fingers tauntingly. "This time, we're not getting in a knife fight in a commode. You've kicked the hornet's nest, my friend. A regular Charlie Foxtrot."

Garrus said nothing as he slowly got to his feet. He was about to reach for his sniper rifle but did not go through with the action once he took a look at it—the barrel had been dented from the last explosion; the weapon was now useless. Sam too was also stumbling back up, but with an assault rifle now in hand.

"That the guy that messed your leg up?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Garrus grimaced, his eyes narrowing. "But I don't plan on being taken down so easily this time."

Having been listening to the entire exchange, the Aeronaut cackled.

"You're in over your head, Vakarian. Last time was a fluke—now I have no distractions to get in my way. Don't worry, I'll be sure to give your head prominent placement on my wall." The Aeronaut then made a punching motion with his fist. "Alpha-Two. Fox two. Alpha-Mike-Foxtrot."

Instantly, another rocket spat from the wings of the Aeronaut's jetpack and embarked upon an abbreviated expedition to blow Garrus and Sam to pieces. The two had to dive in opposite directions to get clear of the ensuing detonation, but both were thrown head over heels once again with the spray of cracked earth and vaporized detritus. Sam's rifle was torn from his grip and tumbled off the edge of the cliff before he could even move to grab it back.

"You've got to be kidding me!" the doctor shouted in frustration before he booked it, seeking cover.

"Bandits engaged," the Aeronaut's voice now hijacked their comms. His own unique way of taunting. "Pressing at angels one point two. Increasing to zone one."

The Aeronaut went parallel as the afterburners in his jetpack roared on. Sapphire flames bursting from his back, the mercenary sped through the sky just over everyone's heads, submachine guns heavily chattering from both hands. Garrus had to roll on the ground to get out of the way of the assault, but his shields sparked madly as several high-velocity rounds slammed into them. His shield bar drained to nearly half in an instant.

_What kind of weapons are those?!_ the turian thought miserably.

"Garrus!" a low roar cut through the air. "Have an angle on this guy?!"

The turian looked up to see Grunt heading his way—the krogan had been previously too far for the Aeronaut to even consider as a target. Garrus was particularly dismayed to see that Grunt was still holding his grenade launcher in his hands. _What kind of good is that going to do against a high-speed enemy?_

"Grunt, I need a re-arm!"

"Got you covered!" The krogan reached behind him and tossed a the turian a battered Chakram Launcher. Garrus caught the weapon with both hands and took a moment for his face to continue falling.

"Would it kill you to ever bring along a weapon with a little more finesse to it?" he asked, begrudgingly fitting his fingers into the trigger guard anyway. What he would give for a Mattock… or hell, even a Vindicator.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Thought not," the turian sighed.

Contrails in the distance marked the presence of a supersonic presence. The Aeronaut was banking for another attack. Garrus and Grunt held their weapons aloft, trying to steel themselves for the coming assault.

"You break right when he makes it over the range," Garrus told Grunt. "Ready?"

"Ready," the krogan rumbled.

As expected, the grim voice seeped through their speakers. It sounded like the Aeronaut was having _fun_.

"I've got you all in my sights. Bearing green to reengage. Feeling the heat at your back yet, Vakarian?"

Zooming at speeds suicidal to any other person, the Aeronaut seemed to shatter the air around him as he swiped past Garrus and Grunt, his weapons scarily accurate as he timed each trigger pull at the exact moment of passage, getting a few hits on his targets. The sonic boom of the mercenary's rapid approach slammed into the two seconds later, nearly deafening the both of them and throwing off their aim. Useless streaks from their own weapons spattered the air, shooting into nothingness. The Aeronaut was just too fast—he could be there and gone in less than the span of time it takes to blink.

Garrus had to drop to a knee, his shields near failing. He ejected a spent heat sink as he scrambled behind a sharp rise of rocks, trying to spot the tell-tale glint of the airborne enemy in the distance, but it was no use. The Aeronaut could cover hundreds of miles in less than a minute—he was effectively invisible to the naked eye at his speeds and at his size.

_Too exposed and ill-equipped_, Garrus thought sourly. _We're easy pickings for this lunatic._

To make that point clear, Garrus ducked by as the Aeronaut screamed by once again overhead, the man's jetpack pushing him to faster and faster speeds. Bullets chipped away at the boulder that hid the turian's head, though several of the stone shards were dislodged fast enough for them to become deadly flechettes. The mercenary could not be touched from the ground. The Aeronaut's advantage was woefully skewed in his favor. Garrus was staring to come to the glum realization that this was going to be a hopeless encounter.

The Aeronaut then gleefully crowed some more over the comm.

"Tapped bogey two. I'm a dot. Conning at four mark six, half-envelope. You're out of options, Vakarian. I'm Foxtrot-Mike."

"This asshole and his pilot lingo!" Garrus snarled as he peeked his head out for another look. If the Aeronaut thought his dense verbiage would put the fear of the spirits in him…

Garrus then blinked as he saw Grunt venture out into the open by himself, still hefting the grenade launcher as if he expected to hit anything with it at such long range and at such poor odds. Sam was nowhere to be found—a wise decision, admittedly, considering the man's limited combat expertise. The turian looked over as a low rumbling began to slice its way in a shuddering of sound, echoing from all around the mountains. One more time for the mercenary with wings.

"Grunt!" Garrus yelled. "Get behind something. He'll shred you out there!"

Grunt did not even bother to look at his captain. "He needs a target! I know he's getting impatient. He won't be able to resist this opportunity."

"Grunt!" he shouted again, but the Aeronaut's next statement flitted into his ears at the same time.

"Alpha-two. Fox three."

A flash of silver could be beheld for a split-second right before the rocket slammed just a few feet in front of Grunt. Garrus saw a tall lick of fire, a raging tower of smoke, and Grunt sailing through the air as the force of the explosion threw him backwards. The krogan hit the ground and rolled once, twice, until there was no more ground to cover and he simply left the edge of the cliff, leaving it empty.

_No._

Presiding over his handiwork, the Aeronaut abruptly slowed to a halt over the plateau, bits of dirt still showering him as he serenely floated through the thin atmosphere of smoke. The Aeronaut was still about a dozen meters of the ground but the heat flaring from his jets was still hot enough to blacken the top of the earth directly underneath.

"Scratch one grape," the Aeronaut chuckled. "Now for the others. You still there, Vakarian? Come on, at least make me _work_ for this!"

The mercenary's back was to Garrus' position. He saw his chance and quickly leaned out from behind the small hill, the Chakram Launcher in hand. The Aeronaut tilted his head, as though he heard a noise, and his jets pitched, spinning him around in a brilliant whirl, his body language somehow surprised to see the turian already having a weapon out and aimed _right at him_.

"Obliged," Garrus grunted right as he pulled the trigger.

The ammunition disc, spat from the launcher's barrel, embarked in a brilliant blaze of pyrotechnics as it smashed into the corner of the Aeronaut's left wing and blew it to pieces. Holographic tracers erupted in a firework of white phosphorous, setting the apparatus on fire. The Aeronaut let out a howl as he spun through the air for a quick moment, abandoning his submachine guns in a panic, before he abruptly dived uncontrollably toward the earth. Before the moment of impact, he was able to regain control with his remaining jet just in time for him to make a light landing on his feet, though his jetpack was completely ruined.

Garrus had embarked on a brazen charge towards the Aeronaut's position at this time. He had discarded the launcher—its finnicky circuitry having developed one of its well-known faults after expending that last shot—now running forward with both hands empty. The turian snarled as he prepared to pounce, but the Aeronaut still had some tricks up his sleeve.

"Activate Tiger Protocol!" he roared into his internal speakers right as he unclipped the jetpack straps from his shoulders.

All of a sudden, the jetpack's remaining engine erupted in a savage thunderclap in response to the verbal command, its afterburner immediately set to full power. It shot right off the Aeronaut's back, the flaps of the jetpack erratically swinging this way and that, causing the winged device to travel in a deadly spin. A whirlwind of metal, a shining saw blade.

Not wanting to get cut in half by the wayward pack, Garrus had to cut his charge short as he dropped to the ground to avoid the oncoming device. Sharp metal wings sliced by just a foot over his head, causing his fringe to ripple in its wake.

The projectile still on his mind, Garrus began to look back towards the direction he had been running in only to see a black combat boot rush towards his face.

There was a sickening crack and soon Garrus found himself on his back. Blood poured from his mouth—it felt like a tooth had just been knocked from his jaw. Burn marks in his vision made colorful scars. The sky overhead washed through half a dozen hues in two seconds. It felt like he had just been concussed.

Now the Aeronaut soon intruded upon the vista as he stood over the turian. He rudely nudged the stunned alien with his foot.

"Tried to cherrypick me, eh? That's not very _sporting!_"

He punctuated this last word by driving a kick into Garrus' ribs. The turian immediately shot up halfway as he uttered a hoarse cry, his chin stained blue, while a fiery pain poked at him inside his body. _Broken rib, maybe… definitely cracked._

"Did you think there was going to be any other outcome?!" the Aeronaut shouted as he now brutally kicked Garrus' other side, driving a shout from his victim. Garrus curled into a ball on instinct to stop the painful blows.

The Aeronaut was now panting as he paced around Garrus' body. He then brought his hand to his right wrist and extracted a length of razor-wire from a compartment there. He made a loop of the wire around his left hand and gave it a few yanks to test its tensile strength. Satisfied, he then kicked Garrus over so that the turian was now lying on his stomach. The mercenary stepped over him, practically straddling Garrus, and knelt down so that he could bring his hands in front of the turian's neck, pressing the loop of wire to the middle of his throat.

"Second try, second disappointment," the Aeronaut sighed as he began to drive his arms backwards, digging the wire into the flesh of Garrus' neck. "I had honestly hoped for better."

With a vicious wrench, the Aeronaut began to pull his arms backward, cutting the wire deeper and deeper into the turian's throat. Garrus, at the last minute, raised his armored wrist and held it near his neck, easing the tension on the deadly device and preventing it from wrapping completely around his neck. But the Aeronaut was unbelievably strong—he was pulling on the razor-wire so hard that it was cutting into the skin at Garrus' wrist. Dark blue blood beaded from the wounds at both sites—the turian was breathing heavily in a panic as more and more of his precious life stained the ground just below him. Garrus gagged from the savage pain. It felt like the Aeronaut was going to bend his arm backwards, breaking it clean in half. And when that happened… there would be nothing left to stop the mercenary from sawing his head off.

His pulse thumped at his temples, a strained and desperate struggle. He was starting to black out. His fingers were already starting to lose their feeling…

But there was a resounding bellow and something _slammed_ into the Aeronaut from above, ripping him away from Garrus. The wire left his throat. The turian collapsed upon the ground, momentarily paralytic from coughing as his hand went to the injury at his neck. As soon as he regained his vision, he looked over with searching eyes.

He locked his gaze with Sam's, who was also on the ground, having tripped after his heroic tackle, having bodily _ripped_ the Aeronaut away from his brutal assault on the turian. Garrus could not help but gape. Sam. _Sam?_

The doctor seemed clueless, as if just woken from a trance. He looked at his own hands, perhaps trying to wonder how he had mustered such bravery to save a friend. From having cowered out of sight to pulling an armed-to-the-teeth madman off of Garrus…

The Aeronaut sat up from the ground a few feet away in a daze, wondering what the hell had just happened. One moment he had been about to saw through Garrus' artery and the next he had been tackled to the ground by a particularly broad and bearded human. He cursed himself for forgetting about this person's existence and was about to get back to his feet to correct his mistake, but his left leg was not working. He looked down in confusion to spot a combat knife, buried to the hilt in his calf. He blinked stupidly, finding it interesting that there was very little pain involved with such a wound. He then turned to the doctor, who was still on the filthy ground, and realized that the man had indeed been armed when he had charged into him.

His incredulity quickly evaporating and leaving nothing but blinding rage behind, the Aeronaut soon realized what had happened. He would never be the same again! All those years, all those campaigns without so much as a scratch! And this… this _civilian_ lands a critical blow on him during a mad minute? The fact that it was not even a well-aimed blow just made it so much worse. A professional would have ended the job then and there. This amateur could not have even managed that!

Practically spitting venom, the Aeronaut stumbled to his feet before anyone else. Fueled completely by adrenaline, nerves dulled by the addictive chemical, he reached down and proceeded to wrench the knife out from his leg, ignoring the sudden gush of blood that proceeded to heavily spurt from the deep wound as he did so. Thick liquid ran dark against his body armor, completely turning his leg a different color. The Aeronaut then tossed the stained knife away after pulling it from his body, his wound now hammering hot fire into every nerve within a few inches of his wound.

The mercenary quickly limped over to Sam before the other man could rise. As Sam turned at the Aeronaut's approach, he blankly froze in place just in time for the armored denizen to kick him at full power upon his cheekbone, smashing it and nearly cracking Sam's orbital socket. As Sam cried out in pain, the Aeronaut was there to deliver his most deadly series of blows yet. He proceeded to stomp on the man, the heel of his boot driving fateful impacts upon Sam's face. One such blow landed on Sam's nose—there was a crunch and a gush of blood. A high scream pierced the day.

"_Fucker!_" the Aeronaut bellowed as he continued to lash out with powerful kicks, a frightening and surprising outburst from the merc. "Do you know what you just did?! I'll rip your guts out for this, you hear me?!" His hands then fumbled for a weapon at his belt—a pistol. His hands were shaking as he wracked the slide a few times until a clip was properly in the correct chamber. He then levelled the weapon at Sam's head before pointing it lower and lower on his body. "But not before I deprive you of that little—"

A flash of steel split the air in two. Words turned to gentle frost in the newfound silence.

The pistol bounced to the ground. A hand, cut off at the wrist, still clenched it.

The Aeronaut numbly looked down at the stump of his right hand, which was now continuously spurting blood. The ground turned red and black with a lengthy splatter pattern in front of him. Sheared bone and tattered capillaries dripped fluids, wet muscle oozing along with them. He clutched at the affected area, just below the stump, already starting to be overcome with the onrushing agony.

A battered Garrus then stepped into view, having plucked up the discarded knife from where the Aeronaut had deposited it on the ground, its wide blade refreshed with the mercenary's blood. Blue was still encrusted around his mouth. Tender drops beaded on the combat knife's serrated edge, flattened metal weave shining alongside the bright flashes of the red that colored it.

As the merc shuffled backwards in a stunted manner, lethargic, Garrus slowly followed as he kept the knife tightly grasped in a tired fist. Still holding onto his wounded limb, the Aeronaut's helmet continued to remain fixated at Garrus' face. Nearly silent pants emitted from the man's vocabulator, his already breathy voice sounding even more ragged. But the turian soon realized that they were not pants at all—the Aeronaut was _laughing_.

"You think today will mean anything for you, Vakarian? Huh?" he coughed out, in a half-crazed state. "So you beat me. Think that'll earn you a fuckin' medal? I'm just the insignificant muscle for a plan that is beyond your understanding! You haven't changed a thing, so go ahead and get on with it!"

Garrus stopped in place, still breathing hard. His eyes now carried a delicate softness. The sort of grim fatigue that arises in those who have been exposed to war in the past only to remember in the present how much they despise it.

"I know you," the mercenary continued to taunt. "You can't resist ending this sort of thing without a final quip out of that stupid mouth of yours! I don't have all day, so quit your stalling, you goddamn turian! If you're not going to give me the satisfaction—"

An arm as thick as bridge cabling then snaked its way around the Aeronaut's chest. The mercenary then felt a circular protuberance stick itself into the small of his back.

"I'll just have to suffice," Grunt then growled into his ear, right before he yanked on the trigger to his grenade launcher.

At point blank range, the grenade round had no chance of arming itself to its complete explosive capability. However, the enormous projectile had been propelled through the barrel of the weapon at its highest possible velocity, fire and gas surging it along the bored path to its immediate destination.

There was a muffled thump. The Aeronaut let out a strangled cry.

Grunt, sporting a few superficial cuts from the previous rocket attack, released his hold on the man. The mercenary crumpled at his feet. The grenade round, still active but unexploded, rolled from the spot on the Aeronaut's back where it had hit to nudge carefully at Grunt's boots. The krogan picked it up and casually tossed it off the cliff.

Garrus limped over, nearly having to lean against Grunt for support. He looked at the felled Aeronaut. "Is… is he?"

"Still alive," the krogan rumbled. "But I think I broke his back."

The Aeronaut feebly stirred, eliciting a pathetic moan, bolstering Grunt's statement.

"A pity," Garrus grimaced. "But I'm not one to leave things half-finished."

With that, he bent over and grabbed at the Aeronaut's chest plate. With some difficulty—and a lot of discomfort—he began to drag the damaged mercenary closer and closer to the cliff. When Garrus had finally reached the edge, he bodily lifted the man's upper torso off the ground and brought his head low, looking at the man's optics from mere inches away. The helmet was nothing but a blank expression, Garrus noted sourly. No anger. No joy. Just a faceless mask.

"You said you wanted a quip out of my mouth," Garrus snarled. "But guess what? I don't have to do anything you say. You're just an entitled asshole playing dress-up. Nothing but a terrorist who fantasizes about the idea of war when in reality you have no idea what it takes to survive during a real time of hardship and sacrifice. You think you look pretty slick with your fancy moves and your expensive armor, but all you are to me is _pathetic_."

Garrus released his hold on the man, creating a thump on the ground as the Aeronaut's body flopped down. The turian stood back up with a pained groan.

"And in the end," he continued, his voice now somber, "it will be easy to forget who you ever were."

The bleeding and bruised turian then stepped up, lifted a scratched boot, and gave a vicious shove to the Aeronaut's midsection. The mercenary had time to utter one short cry before his was bodily kicked over the side of the cliff. Garrus watched the Aeronaut bounce down the steep embankment, head over heels, the human's body being broken again and again with each frightful impact before vanishing out of sight.

Once the final echo of meat against rock died did Garrus finally turn back.

The groaning from Sam made the turian hustle over to the fallen man. He had to kneel to get close to the doc, who was lying on his back. Sam's face was a mess. It was coated in blood from his nostrils down. A bruise below his left eye was making his cheek swell up something fierce.

"How're you hanging in there, soldier?" Garrus asked, grabbing for Sam's hand.

The man gave a grumpy cough, squinting in the light of the waning day. "Nose is broke again. Of all the fucking luck." He gave a tender wince. "You pay the bastard back?"

"He tried to fly with clipped wings," Garrus said sardonically.

Sam smiled, showing blood-stained teeth. "Knew I was a bad influence on you."

"Be quiet. Anything I can do for that nose? Looks pretty bad."

The man closed his eyes as he dimly waved a hand about. "Cartilage is bent out of shape. I'll have to reset it back on the ship."

An idea came to the turian and he resisted uttering a devilish chuckle. "Why wait? I'll help with that now."

Sam's eyes snapped open in horror. "I'd really think that I should do it myself—"

"Nonsense! How hard can it be?" Garrus then tried to bring his hand over to the doctor's face. "Just a twist back into place and you're all good."

"No, no, that's fine—" Sam quickly stammered as he feebly beat at Garrus' wrist, but the turian soon locked two fingers upon his bent nose.

"Shall I give you a three second countdown?"

"Garrus, I swear to fucking _Christ_ if you—"

But Garrus quickly gave his wrist a rotation, his fingers gripping Sam's nose during the entire motion. With a click, the damaged protrusion locked back into place, but not without the human letting out an ear-splitting bellow, his hands clawing at the ground so hard he was leaving individual finger marks.

"You… didn't… even… start… the countdown!" Sam roared as the pain caused him to sit back up, his hands gently orbiting his nose, not daring to touch it.

"You always did say that it's best to act when the patient is least expecting it," Garrus shrugged.

Sam glared at him while he dug into his pocket for a tube of medi-gel. He applied a few dollops to his cheek and to his nose, generating hisses as he smeared the salve into the skin.

"I officially hate you, I hope you know that," he grimaced, though it was not without the slight tinge of amusement buried deeply within the statement.

"I figured," Garrus smirked. He held out his arm for Sam to take. "Come on."

The turian helped the shaky human back to his feet. While Sam was sagging against him, nearly deadweight, Garrus activated his omni-tool and cycled through the list of channels.

"Got a lot of interference on all bands. We must have been experiencing jamming during that little fight. Let's see if Roahn is still around…"

As his fingers flicked to the appropriate channel, a voice burst from his interior speaker. They were screaming.

"—_arrus! Garrus! Pick up! If you can hear me on your comms, acknowledge!"_

"Roahn!" Garrus spoke quickly, "I'm here! Don't worry, I'm here. Things got a little dicey up here but we're fine now. How are you holding—"

"_No time!"_ the quarian sounded completely distraught. _"It's… it's the Menhir! We need to get back to the ship right away!"_

_What is she talking about?_ the turian wondered, but he was simultaneously pulling up the frequency for the Menhir, still safely overhead in orbit. "Roahn, what is going on? Where's Aleph?"

"_There!_" she cried over the comm. "_He's on the ship!_"

_On the Menhir? Impossible_. But Garrus already had a dreadful feeling settle into the pit of his stomach. Even Sam was finding strength in his own two feet, his bloody face lined with worry, the browning layer now crackling along the edges of his mouth as he looked to his captain. _But… he was just here. How could Aleph go from one spot to the next so quickly?_

Yet, when his tool finally did connect to the proper channel, he did not receive the usual intonation from an ops tech. Nor did he hear anyone else over the comm that he recognized.

What he did hear was a layer of titillation that crackled over the usual coating of solar flare-laden noise. It was not an earthly tone of welcoming, nor was it the cold artificiality of emptiness being projected into his ears.

It was the sound of gunfire.

* * *

**A/N: I did promise that this chapter would be particularly important to the story at large. Despite being the longest chapter of the story so far (I believe we're now up to 400k words now. Wow!) I found the writing process to be more enjoyable than usual. I'm quite interested to see what you all think.**

**One more snag after another for poor Roahn, though. Did you think her trials and tribulations would get easier over time?**

**Playlist:**

**The Road to Aleph**  
**"Mars Red Planet"**  
**Graeme Revell**  
**Red Planet (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**The Foes Converse (Aleph Theme v1)**  
**"Gramr"**  
**David Garcia**  
**Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**The Monolith's Story**  
**"Virus"**  
**Sean Murray**  
**Call of Duty: Black Ops (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Aleph's Revelation/The Tranquility's Purpose**  
**"Revival"**  
**Neil Davidge**  
**Halo 4 (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Roahn's Run/Aleph's Trick**  
**"Nitroglycerin"**  
**David Buckley**  
**Batman: Arkham Knight (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**The Aerial Fight**  
**"Logan vs. X-24 [Pt.2] [Unreleased Track]"**  
**Marco Beltrami**  
**Logan (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	29. Chapter 29: What Will Be Your Epitaph?

"_You complained. We listened. No vehicles for you!"_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Engineering  
__Menhir_

Dark coils of pipes curled over the head of the asari, filaments spilling oily light upon the grate of the floor. A wall of bright luminescence, emitted from a rectangular shape, lightened the already deep blue of Liara T'Soni's skin, her eyes constantly wandering as she sat in the underbelly of the level, typing at the keypad of the console station.

Comforted by the eternal thrum of the drive core, the hours slipped away from Liara as she engrossed herself more and more into her work, though it was not without the occasional flash of introspection. Despite the importance of her duties, Liara was prone to the everyday occurrence when Liara would marvel at the direction her life had wound up taking. Perhaps not in her entire lifespan could she have predicted the wonderous and unexpected twists and turns that had cropped up after her fateful first encounter with her old commander. She would have probably settled for a life more routine, in all honesty, had she known what ventures were laying ahead. She had been fine with the status quo when she had been a scientist, even if it had left her feeling slightly unfulfilled.

Now the status quo had changed. Her routine had taken on a natural disorder—with adventures being piled on and on in varying states of importance. Scientist turned information broker turned warrior. A rather turbulent journey for someone who had originally been dead set in their ways.

She now sat at Korridon's desk in the lower deck of engineering, her face lit only by the light of the screen. A command window lay superimposed on the upper right corner of the screen—Liara's nimble fingers were typing out line after line of code on it, scouring the device's drives in the hopes of finding an item of critical importance, buried deep in the layers of silicon and copper.

Hacking may have been a new skill in the asari's repertoire, but she was a fast learner and had taken to it with a stalwart patience, apparently a trait quite beneficial for those who worked with code as a living.

Liara's previous analyses of the Reaper artifact, before Roahn had abruptly taken it, had come up with absolutely nothing of note. This had been a constant source of frustration to her ever since she had taken up this task—rarely was she used to succumbing to any roadblocks in her work. Admitting defeat would not only let herself down, it would let the team down as well. She couldn't have that happening. But she had recalled, after an hour of thought, that Korridon had been able to obtain a key bit of useful information from the other artifact that they had previously examined. He had unearthed an incomplete fragment of the entire puzzle—the tracking signal that the artifacts naturally resonated—and had managed to do it all on his own. Realizing that she would be unable to replicate the turian's methodology, she had resorted to breaking into the man's console to use his own equations as a template. He would understand this invasion of privacy, she figured. This was for the entire team's benefit, after all.

A little smile of reminiscence came to her face as she worked. Had her path not crossed with that of Commander Shepard's, Liara would have starved to death in the ruins of a Prothean dig site a long time ago all by her lonesome. If she had managed to get free without the human's assistance though, she probably would have continued her futile foray into being known as one of the most gifted archaeologists of her age. Her research up until that day had made great strides into the then-theory of there being multiple "cycles" of civilizations, the ebb and flow of intelligent life rising and following through the will of the Reapers, though her proof had been too scant for any of the research institutions on Thessia to take notice. Worse, the seemingly contrarian nature of her findings had caused her to be shunned within the science community—now _that_ had stung. Of course, the arrival of the Reapers and the knowledge of their existence would soon prove her exhausting years of detailed analysis to have been completely correct, but if she had continued exist as "just" Liara T'Soni, her own voice would have been lost in the storming thrum of the horde of inward and stubborn academic matriarchs. No one would have listened to her. No one would have cared.

Yet she had risen above it all. The inquest into the Prothean/Reaper connection had yielded results that had been irrefutably proved correct. She had been granted a permanent position at Thessia's most prestigious institution of knowledge after the war—allowed to teach the coming asari generations all the knowledge she had learned. And on top of it all, she was the ex-Shadow Broker, the last in a rather long line of information merchants, though her resources as such a dark intermediary came with a lot more ordinance than any regular agent. But she had put that life behind her a while back—there had been no reason for her to continue as the Shadow Broker. The galaxy had finished with its war, the information she had at her disposal would only do more harm than good at this point. She had tired of wielding the power to topple governments right from a console screen and had wanted to be rid of it, to return to occupations more productive and soothing to the soul.

_Heavy is the head that wears the crown_, Shepard had said to her once. That man sure had quite the repository of meaningful quotes when they were needed.

Funny how she could barely see herself returning to her past life. Archaeology was not a science that guaranteed exact results, for it was a process built around extrapolation. It was a different type of uncertainty compared to the quandaries she faced today. Lives had not been on the line from her work back then. Her days of remote sensing areas, surveying fields, excavating the ground, and analyzing finds were long gone.

Liara's eyes flicked up to the corner of the screen at the exact moment her cracking software had breached Korridon's profile. The _Menhir's_ internal net was not designed to prevent against brute-force attacks from allied personal profiles, but from external sources. No wonder the firewalls had not put up much of a fight.

The console had a record of all the files that Korridon had accessed last, organizing them in that order. Liara noticed that the file at the top of the list had a particularly large size associated to it. The name was also curious: "/ITEMS/Catalog/Artifact/Triton/Artifact2-Copy::obj." How did Korridon come to have a file location for Triton when he had not even made it onto the ship to perform his own analysis of the artifact? Also, would he have labelled any of these items as _copies?_ What exactly would be the point in doing so?

She commanded the console to open the object file and the ship's allocated MWorks software came online. Odd, Liara had not expected the multiple-paradigm numerical computing environment to boot up upon requesting access to this file. That meant this file was not just an object. According to the immense amount of data contained and designated by the swath of menus that was now positioned upon the sidebar, this was an entire _system simulation._

But a simulation for what? That answer was quickly solved as soon as the residual graphic within the object itself finally ceased pixelating, revealing itself as an item of abject familiarity.

It was the Triton artifact. A complete iconograph of both it and its related energy profile had already been uploaded to the _Menhir's_ drive. _But… how?_ Liara wondered. She certainly had not done any sort of upload to the ship when she had been trying to crack the artifact's mysteries. Then how did the entirety of this item come to exist in this digital format, patiently awaiting to be used?

Perhaps there was an answer already, she recalled. Something that Roahn had mentioned in her after-action report on Triton gave Liara pause. She spent a few minutes trying to track down the report in question, along with any transcripts that the auto-recording software had jotted down. About an hour into the mission's log time, Liara's finger hovered over a line that Korridon's ID had flagged.

She read the action lines and the denoted dialogue over and over for clarification.

[01:05:21]_ Cpl. K. Sidonis connected to MWorks suite.  
_[01:05:55]_ Cpl. K. Sidonis uploaded a schematic to MWorks._  
CPL. K. SIDONIS: Backup. Just in case.

Liara blinked several times as she looked from the artifact scan to the transcript, almost in disbelief. The answers she had sought now lay bare before her eyes. Just as she might have thought: Korridon, somehow anticipating any hiccups, had taken the time to conduct a thorough scan of the artifact when he had first laid eyes on it in that Alliance base—make a virtual copy, essentially—and uploaded it to the _Menhir_ in case they had not managed to conduct a thorough examination of it without him.

But there was more. When Korridon had uploaded the artifact's information, he had previously set a program to run upon retrieval of the file. The software had automatically run a power spectrum of the series of radiation that had been monitored from the artifact. The white noise in the spectrogram had been steadily filtered in the background, parsing out nonperiodic outliers in the spectrum. This had all occurred without anyone else's input. Liara was pulling up additional menus of data to confirm all of this, but she soon found out that Korridon had been even more thorough than she had thought. Once the final rendering of the equations had been completed, another program had sifted the results into that of the readings of the first artifact the team had taken from Dark Horizon. Previous data points that might have been too faint in the squall of data now lit up like fireflies in the light. A distinct pattern could be interpreted by the _Menhir's_ supercomputer now.

All pointing to one undeniable result. A singular energy profile, inimitable. Distinct. One that could now be tracked by the ship's sensors.

They now had the key to locating Aleph.

Liara slowly pushed herself away from the desk in an awed befuddlement. "_Huh_," was all she was able to say in the moment.

She would have liked to have been able to say something more profound, more definitive in the wake of such a revelation, but then again, she had not expected to have been _gifted_ the answer in this manner. That was neither here nor there, anymore. They had what they needed!

A helpless grin crept to her face, unable to be warded off. When Garrus could learn that they had finally gotten a break…

Her eyes naturally drifted upward as waxy shadows slowly began to undulate upon the wall in front of her. The light on this level was dim and adipose, accompanied by the low moans of ventilation. The portages of darkness were stark constants in this part of the ship, but Liara's eyes had been long adjusted enough to see the vivid outline of a raised weapon in the silence of this sublevel.

A weapon that looked to be pointed right at her head.

The asari shot out of her chair and broke into a crouch at the same time she smoothly unholstered her submachine gun. Before she could fire, a chatter of bullets ripped through the coarse shadows, spitting harsh tongues of sparks and heat. Liara felt something blister past her head, but she was too hopped up on adrenaline to react. She fired her own weapon—there was a distinct crash and an electronic yowl charged its way through the confines of gray hullplates. A body slumped to the ground; three holes had punctured clean through their chest plate, leaking a dark fluid. Liara rose from her crouch, light at her back, making her outlines appear vague and a dull blue. An eerie wraith.

Liara's heart was now racing as she recognized the armor of the person that had just attacked her as that of Dark Horizon. A million questions came to mind, though she knew most did not have the hope of having answers.

_How is Dark Horizon here, on the Menhir?! Stealth systems are engaged and we're locked in orbit! It's impossible to be boarded this easily!_

From the grating above, Liara could now see vague shapes move at harried paces. Clearly this little skirmish had been noticed. Before trouble could chance upon her again, Liara found a little nook in between a pair of thick fluid conduits and wedged herself between them, resting the grip of the submachine gun on a little ledge so that she could take aim.

A trio of similarly armored men then rounded the corner after descending the staircase, all hefting heavy assault rifles. One of them bent down to assess their dead comrade.

"Shit," their distorted voice burst from their helmet's vocabulator. "We didn't get the drop on this level. Fan out—she's in here somewhere."

The three mercenaries did not get the chance to complete the action because Liara had been taking aim at them all this time. She unleashed one bullet from her hidden crevasse that caught the lead soldier in the neck—a gout of blood sprayed from the gaping wound in his trachea. The other two had been caught completely off guard and, without knowing where they were being attacked from, they started spraying the entire level with a hail of gunfire in all directions. Liara did not flinch, even as thunderous crashes made quite the cacophony in this confined space. Rather, she waited until the two mercenaries had finished firing, the energy in their thermal clips expended. After ejecting the spent clips, the soldiers began to clunkily proceed forward with the intent to storm the position of their aggressor, despite still not having a clue where that might be.

Liara held her breath as the two mercenaries passed her by—she had hunkered herself into a tight ball, breathing entirely through her nose. She did not want to take the chance in case the soldiers had sensitive audio-receptors in their helmets. Once the loud footsteps had sounded like they were receding did she leap up from her hiding hole and strike at their rears.

In the blink of an eye, Liara aimed her weapon and let loose a deafening burst straight into the back of the closest aggressor's left knee. Bone popped out the other side, the joint having been obliterated. With a scream, he began to drop. The mercenary's cohort had been in the process of turning in reaction to the commotion, but in the terrible light, could not see all that well and thus mistook his ally for Liara. His answering volley, poorly aimed at that, took out part of his comrade's foot and also buried several bullets into his gut. Protected by the darkness, Liara cleanly pulled the trigger of the submachine gun, the mechanism making crisp breaks, and removed part of the second man's head, helmet and all. Both soldiers slumped to the ground, one bleeding out from major wounds to the abdomen, the second already dead with a chunk of his brain pan glistening within the ragged cracks of skull.

"Sagan," Liara spoke into her comm as she did not leave time to breathe, already in the process of moving back up one level. "Dark Horizon's on the ship. Have we been boarded?!"

"_Negative_," the geth immediately responded. "_There are reports of incursions on multiple decks, but there are no craft that have docked with the Menhir at this time_."

"That doesn't make any sense!" she hissed as she clambered up the stairs before stopping. "Wait… cease all communication, this location's compromised."

The asari had just about reached the main engineering deck, but it looked and sounded like more Dark Horizon troops had taken care of this part of the deck first. In their superior armor, the mercenaries had embarked upon a skirmish with some of the _Menhir_ techs, who were woefully equipped in comparison. Bodies lined the ground, mostly allied troops (to Liara's dismay), dark blood outlining their corpses. Gunfire echoed on all levels—harsh cracks and dull thumps.

Liara hid at the halfway point on the stairwell as she watched a squad of five armored troops pass her by. It looked like they were heading toward the drive core, probably doubling back after completing their sweep of the deck, now hoping to seize control of the ship by overriding its propulsion systems.

Energy perpetuated itself in a glowing aura around the asari. She felt it billow through her fingertips, pulsate around her head. She clenched a fist before embarking into a charge up the rest of the stairs.

The squad had no idea they were being flanked from behind until the last possible second. The rearward trooper took a quick glance backward before performing a double-take, noticing the onrushing asari coming dangerously close to their position.

Too little, too late.

"Hey!" he managed to shout, "we got inco—"

He never managed to make out more than that before Liara's heavy pistol crashed, taking him fully in the chest and bowling him completely over. Weapons turned in the asari's direction, but Liara was already making her next move. She reached out with a shrouded hand, yanking upon the invisible threads that permeated all matter in the universe. A sharpened tool, resting upon a nearby workbench, suddenly sprung up and out as if it had been yanked across the room by a very thin string. The tool, now cushioned by an azure emanation upon its outlines, zoomed through the air in a deadly arc. With a dry thunk, it embedded itself into the neck of one of the soldiers—blood immediately spurted around the metallic protuberance in a long spray. Coughing as he died, the stabbed man's knees gave out and he instinctively clenched upon the trigger of his weapon, opening right into the back of the man ahead of him in a crescendo of noise. Sparks and sticky ichor flew in a psychedelic hail. Neither one truly had an idea of the exact nature of how their deaths befell them.

Liara had to roll in order to avoid the answering blasts from the final two soldiers. Upon exiting the maneuver, she gave her pistol another pull on the trigger. A Dark Horizon soldier reeled back with a shout, three of his fingers now missing from his right hand while blood, bone, and armor littered the ground at his feet. Teeth gritted, Liara brought all her fingers together in a fierce clench—honing residual energy into a natural locus point—and then yanked her hand toward her chest in a savage motion. Gripped by a massive amount of force, the biotic wave flung the trooper over the asari's head, straight into the wall behind her. He impacted head-first, a sickening crunch apparent over the noise of gun reports. He collapsed to the ground, neck at a funny angle.

The last man roared and opened fire on Liara with an obliterating burst. The asari had raised her hand just in time, conjuring a watery barrier that rippled manically as bullets exploded onto its face. As she continued to hold the biotic barrier, with her other hand, she slowly made a sweeping motion from the ground upwards. A rift of dark energy began to billow right underneath the trooper's feet. He looked down at the glowing light under his heels, helmeted head tilted in confusion.

"Always the last place you expect," Liara quipped right before she shot her arm upwards, a cosmic current streaming between her fingers like she had just uplifted a fistful of sand.

The biotic lift seized hold of the Dark Horizon trooper, enveloping him in a swath of light. His feet left the ground momentarily as his entire body was hoisted several feet into the air. But in the next few moments, the gravitational field's polarity abruptly shifted, slamming the man back down to the ground with the force of a freight train. The impact was heavy and resounding. Armor plating and ribs snapped in a percussive series, accompanied by the familiar wheezes that usually indicated severely punctured lungs. The man's chest had been caved in completely.

Liara stepped forward, biotic energy flaring away in glimmering sparks from her fingertips. Casually, she walked over to the body of the man she just dispatched, who was still, for the moment, miraculously clinging to life.

She put an end to that right away, courtesy of one final report from her pistol. The dying man slumped, a hole now implanted into his forehead, blood and smoke wisping from the entry wound.

The asari looked around the engineering deck with a mournful sigh. The entire place was in a bad way. Blood, oil, and other liquids stained the grating and sides of nearby holo-consoles. Walls contained several battle scars—bullets, scorch marks, bite chunks from grenades. And then there were the bodies that littered the floor. Encased in matte black and carbon weave armor, or simply dressed in standard-issue ship tunics. Dark Horizon had already claimed several lives today. More and more the quest to seek out the _how_ became less important. What was pertinent was stopping them in their tracks. Right now.

Still, the maneuvers from the paramilitary group seemed oddly detached. As if they had chosen to rush into all this without a plan. Liara knew the circumstances were hardly similar, but it was easy for her to recall the lengthy efforts Cerberus had gone to in their failed attempt to seize control of the Citadel. In that attack, they seemed to have pulled out all the stops: legions upon legions of cannon fodder grunts, heavily shielded Centurions, riot-shield toting crowd control warriors, automated turrets, cloaked sword-wielding Phantoms, and an entire arsenal of Atlas mechs. Granted the _Menhir_ was a smaller target, but the lack of variation in the overall strategy seemed deliberately regressive.

There was no more time to worry about that now, because Liara's radar was now going haywire. Several red blips were now appearing in the corridors that led to the room she was in right now. A quick check of the ship's decks showed her that there were no more allies in her vicinity. Cautiously, she retreated into the drive core room, the thrumming and gigantic silver orb of the core threatening to shake her eardrums to pieces, and locked the door behind her.

"Sagan," she spoke into her comm. "I've got enemy troops on the other side of the drive core's doors. Vent this deck and we can have it cleared."

There was a pause as the geth connected to the ship's systems. "_No additional friendly contacts detected on your level._ _Confirm command to vent atmosphere on deck 3_."

"Do it, Sagan."

The door to the drive core had no windows but Liara could still hear the effects of the directive through the semi-soundproofed surface. There had been a distinct sucking noise and a curious lack of fidelity in all sound shortly afterward. There were a few muted thumps here and there that sounded like objects tumbling away in the background, but otherwise the effects of the order had been eerily quiet.

"_Process completed_," Sagan intoned two minutes later as the lock to the door flashed from red to green. "_All hostiles have been ejected_. _Atmosphere restored to normal levels_."

Listlessly, Liara crept through the door back into the engineering room, peeking around the corners for good measure. It had looked like someone had completely upturned the entire interior of the ship here—chairs had been tossed aside like they had been made of paper mâché, loose articles that had been previously perched on countertops were now missing, and splatters of blood now marred the walls instead of just the floor. The results of exposing this deck to the cold open of deep space certainly had done a number on both the ship and their antagonistic foes.

Liara's radar was showing no activity, good or bad. A small comfort, though it was not likely to bring her much peace for very long. She headed out into the hallway and pushed the button for the elevator. There were still others on this ship that needed her help. The rest of the crew, obviously, and… and…

The elevator panel blared angrily. The entire console had been disabled! Wrathfully, Liara could not help but strike the side of the wall, breaking open the skin at her knuckles and leaving red blotches upon the warped steel.

"Sagan! I need you to engage the lift. _Right now!_"

* * *

"_Menhir_ system controls have been currently partitioned away from ship-wide alias," Sagan calmly reported to Liara as ocean-blue bolts sang past his head. "Currently executing retrieval programs to restrict external intrusion attempts. Stand by."

The glow of the geth's omni-tool matched the color of his yellow armor—Sagan did not deactivate it and left it running, continuing to utilize its processes.

The geth was in something of a tricky situation. A foreign presence had managed to sneak past the firewalls of the ship and hijack several non-critical systems that were proving to be more of a hindrance than an actual danger. If Sagan had the capacity to be annoyed, he would most certainly have been exhibiting such symptoms by now. An infiltration like this should not have been possible, not with the cyberwarfare suites he had installed.

Adding onto the confusion was the tactical problem that Sagan was currently embroiled in. He was still up in the cockpit, taking cover in the doorway while onrushing troops tried to maneuver down the corridor of the ship, the very neck in the _Menhir's_ design, in an attempt to take over the controls. Multiple Dark Horizon troopers were just throwing their lives away, charging into the crossfire in a vain attempt to muster past the bottleneck.

Heat sinks littered the floor at Sagan's feet. From time to time, the geth would pop out of cover, a Locust submachine gun in each hand, and fill the corridor with precise bursts of strobing fire, flak, and crushing sound. Body after body would drop—pinpoint holes drilled into the chest and head of each soldier. The geth would alternate fire from hand to hand, using the lull in ejecting one spent thermal clip to resume firing with his other weapon. The continuous hail proved to be too much for the Dark Horizon forces—they tentatively hung back in the CIC, now beginning to weigh their options a little more conservatively.

The geth kept a running tally of his remaining ammunition. There was no need for consternation—there was a small armory that had been installed in the cockpit that contained a few more boxes of thermal clips. A shotgun was even hanging on the wall there.

A stray pistol shot bounced into the cockpit area, nearly scratching Sagan's wrist armor. The geth wisely chose that next moment to maneuver back into his little hiding area to avoid any incoming fire.

Liara's voice piped up again. "_Sagan? No luck. They've barricaded all the emergency shafts. I'm in no danger but I'm not going to be of much help to you_."

The sheer despondency and feeling of impotence in Liara's voice resonated upon the geth. Tweaking the focus on his twin lenses, Sagan smoothly holstered his weapons and went for the weapons locker, palming it open with a fluid motion. He immediately went for the shotgun and began slotting in fresh clips into the empty chamber—he racked the slide once he was finished.

"The closest hatch is located in the communications room, twenty-five point six meters from my current location," the geth said. "Will shortly commence egress to unlock the hatch. Estimate visual contact in forty-six seconds at average rate of progression."

"_Don't rush on my account. I'm safe, you're not."_

"Acknowledged," the geth intoned, his voice just a hair softer than normal. "But obtaining collective strength is worth the risk."

Audio receptors picked up light footfalls in the corridor. A three-man team was approaching his position. Sagan adjusted his fingers upon the slide of the shotgun, a timer clocking down in his circuitry to the very instant he would make his next move.

With a squeal of his clawed feet upon the scuffed ground, Sagan leaned out and sent out a massive hammer of fire that threw the lead Dark Horizon soldier back with a yell. Machine gun fire rang out, but Sagan had already shifted his aim in the next microsecond, tearing apart another mercenary's chest with a close-range burst. The geth looked up to see more troopers spill from the adjacent rooms, drawn in to the allure of combat. Sagan had no capacity for bloodthirsty revelry—if he did the troopers would have had more cause to be afraid in the next moment.

Sagan tapped on a control upon his shotgun as his shields, pummeled by enemy fire, had dipped down to halfway. A tactical omni-barrier immediately sprang out from the shotgun, spanning the length from the floor to a foot above the barrel of the weapon. The tech-molded shield offered only a little barrel slit for Sagan to open fire as he pleased—the barrier itself was overclocked to absorb a crushing amount of punishment from both small-arms and heavy gunfire.

Protected by the glowing and portable cover, the geth plodded forward reservedly. His finger, prime on the trigger, was a constant pulse upon it after his synthetic muscles absorbed the recoil handedly, shot after shot.

Pyrotechnics from futile bullets erupting all over his shields, resounding shouts and screams from the troopers made their home in the CIC of the _Menhir_ while Sagan, silent behind his unbroken and blazing refuge, kept advancing, his own shotgun providing stoic reminders of the folly that awaited those that tried to wrench the ship from his meticulous hands.

* * *

The door to the captain's cabin had been thoroughly sealed—triple-bolted—but still the fierce crackling and fizzing from hostile welding tools on the other side were able to make a thin line through the middle seal. A tiny conflagration upon the door, comprised of instantaneous blinding flowers the color of a sun, curled smoke into the air, a glowing red trail gradually cooling behind it like the tail of a comet. Heat began to warp the surface of the door—whoever was behind it was using a ton of power trying to muster their way through. Two more minutes and they would slice through the final deadbolt, granting them access.

Three sweating crewmembers stood on the higher level of the cabin, all aiming pistols towards the door. One of them, a turian with slight teal facepaint, glanced back at the man standing slightly below him further into the cabin, next to the queen-sized bed.

"Sir," he said, trying not to let panic encroach upon his voice, "you really should get behind something. It's going to be dangerous for you very soon."

But the eye-patched man, fiercely clasping a pistol as well, which he held at his side, firmly shook his head. It was not a gesture of devout defiance, but a world-weary resignation of the future. Of the inevitable.

"I've learned a while back that running only gets you so far," Shepard muttered as he moved to get a clear line of sight on the door. His palm, starting to become slippery with his own sweat, felt hot upon his weapon. "I'll stand. Just as you're doing."

The four continued to watch the door's deconstruction, paralytically mesmerized, while the bubbling hot glow continued to sear across the multiple locks keeping it shut. No one's face was set in confidence, each one slowly succumbing to despair over their own irresoluteness. Even Shepard, the uplifted bastion of confidence, was struggling to hold back his own worries, his deepest fears.

With a crackle of stressed metal, the interior seal of the door gave a thick pop as the door was finally stressed beyond its limits. Liquid streams of boiling calefaction spewed across the ground, sparking and fizzing angrily. The door seemed to list, as if it had been dislodged from its rails. It then split apart, spilling forth a mass of gray smoke into the cabin, tidal and endlessly layered in fractals.

The crewmembers began to cough from the smoke, eyes watering and turning red. Their aim wavered heavily as they moved to rub their eyes.

From out of the darkness, a large figure suddenly stepped into existence. A shadow against the shadow. They were enormous, a bulb of chrome situated upon an impossibly gigantic frame of armor. With a speed that seemed to defy reality, they raised a fist in a savage motion, five fingers clenching together within that time. There was a loud metallic noise in the air, akin to a rusted bin hatch being rent out of proportion.

Immediately the three crewmembers seized, all freezing in place where they stood. Three pistols fell from clawed-open hands, having never fired a shot. Their eyes were only allowed a scant second to roam around the room in terror, before there was a blinding snap in all their heads. Their eyes then rolled upward. As if a great pressure had built up within their bodies, the next scene turned into ferocious madness as blood shot from every facial orifice in each crewmember. Red and blue splashed to the ground in an appalling cocktail. It was as if something in their heads had simultaneously liquefied. Gurgling from their noses, expelled from their mouths, leaking from their ears, dribbling from their eyes. Every one of the _Menhir_ sailors spent the next three seconds hoisted in place, jerking like invisible strings were giving maddening tugs on their bodies. Then they all dropped, collapsing in their blood, the vivid colors staining their clothes.

Aleph stepped over their bodies, lowering his hands as he approached the small staircase. Horrified, Shepard took a step back, nearly tripping over the corner of the bed as he hurried to put his weapon up, momentarily forgetting himself. He had only just gotten the monster in his sights when Aleph made another slight gesture in his fingers and Shepard cried out as he felt his pistol get _ripped_ right out of his fingers!

The brutal tug shot the weapon through mid-air, straight into Aleph's hand. Tender curls of azure energy melted away like the remnants of a morning fog around his fingers. The cybernetic construct then slowly brought his hand closed upon the pistol, but wherever his armored digits seemed to touch the weapon, the casing seemed to glow bright red and slough away, like it was being thermally corroded before Shepard's very eye! Faint tendrils of smoke and the acrid sent of burning plastic reached Shepard's eye and nose. The remains of the pistol soon fell to the floor, the ends melted and dripping polymer.

"**Long time coming, for the both of us,"** Aleph casually mused as he reached the bottom step.

Shepard's lip curled, his remaining eye a narrow splinter. The bearded man stayed where he was, unwilling to give an inch to this monster.

"I wondered if we were ever going to meet like this, face-to-face," he said.

Aleph stopped a couple of meters away from Shepard, his shoulders raising slightly in a shrug.

"**I had always hoped for this moment."**

Now Shepard gave a tired and angry smirk, the last vestiges of defiance clawing back some real estate on his face.

"It's too bad that I have to disappoint you. I've seen better days."

Aleph looked up and down at the aged commander. One eye missing, shockingly white beard encrusting his features, skin thin and paper-like. True, while time had relentlessly and ruthlessly eaten away at Shepard's body, turning the once formidable human into a plain and ordinary man no different than all the rest, the cyborg could detect unquantifiable amounts of pain, bliss, and love stewing beneath the surface to produce a being utterly content with how his life had been lived. No fear remained on the human's expression anymore. He had stared upon death too many times for it to have an impact.

"**No,"** Aleph shook his head. **"You're exactly as I pictured."**

The tall being then gave a microscopic glance about the room, a subtle dare for Shepard to try something, anything, if he even thought that he could gain the upper hand in such a short time span.

"**You have not lost your relevance, Shepard,"** he continued to speak. **"But you **_**have**_** been surpassed. You should be proud to know how much of yourself made it into your daughter."**

The effect upon hearing this creature speak of Roahn had an electrifying effect upon Shepard. His face paled, stricken by a nameless horror—the terror that only a parent could have for their child.

"Do _not_ talk about my daughter!" Shepard choked out, tongue making it difficult to speak.

"**You need not fear for her safety. She still lives."**

The human's lower lip trembled, an uncontrollable moisture brimming in the corner of his eye.

"I _know_ what you did to her. I saw her in the hospital when she returned from Luna! I looked upon the stump of her arm and I found so much pain in her eyes. You nearly destroyed her that day. If I was still the man that I once had been, I would _butcher_ you right now."

There was a minute sound of distorted noise from Aleph's vocabulator. A laugh.

"**Perfect. A quintessential retort from the commander of old. How nice to see you at last."**

Moments came and went with nothing but the resounding void silence filling the air between the two. A hateful stare glimmered from Shepard's last eye, drawn the lingering repository of energy that had yet to be manifested as anything but malevolence. A lifetime's worth of regret had been sealed away within the former commander, old wounds previously thought forgotten.

Sensing weakness, the ghosts had come back home to roost.

"So…" Shepard murmured with a sigh. "What happens now?"

Aleph seemed to take pleasure in his length to respond.

"**Now?"** he murmured as he slowly moved forward, towards Shepard. Towards destiny. His form blocked out the light behind him as he moved, a brimming and utterly despondent force of malignance. **"Now is when you finally see the dawn… of the era you had promised us."**

* * *

_Fifteen minutes later_

Roahn did not wait for the Kodiak to finish touching down in the shuttle bay before she activated the manual release hatch so she could jump down a meter to the ground. There was a heavy stomp as her boots hit the deck. The first thing she noticed was there were a lot more crewmembers milling around here than usual. Liara and Sagan were anxiously awaiting in the middle while other sullen-looking techs tried to perform a few light manual duties in order to focus their raging minds.

The quarian paid no heed to the others who were slowly disembarking the shuttle behind her. Already she noted the one significant absence. She ran up to Liara and grasped her shoulders tightly.

"Where is he?!" she nearly screamed, abandoning all pretenses of decorum. "_Where's dad?!_"

"I…" the asari stammered, thrown off from Roahn's ferocity, "…I don't—"

Impatient, Roahn immediately sprinted away from Liara without waiting to hear her answer. She surged into the elevator and rode it up to each level. On every floor, she screamed for her father, sprinting from room to room, her boots thomping through corridors, one after another. It was the same result on each of the _Menhir's_ levels. Engineering. Battery. CIC. No answer. No signs of life from the person she wished to see most.

Then Roahn finally made it to the top. Captain's cabin.

She screeched to a halt as she beheld the disaster that awaited her inside. It had looked like a bomb had gone off here. The desk was smashed to smithereens, the bed was overturned, several dents in the walls were apparent, glass littered every inch of the floor, and even the skylight to the stars had a massive crack in it. Not to mention the fact that there were three bodies of _Menhir_ crewmembers—all dead amongst each other, each one exhibiting familiar causes of their sudden end—told her that someone important, someone worth protecting, had been in this location.

But now there was nary a trace of that person to be found.

"Oh… _dad_…" Roahn moaned as she walked further into the room in a daze. She rotated on the spot, a bystander to the carnage.

She felt like crying. How could she have been so stupid?! They had all been distracted, each pulled apart in order for Aleph to make his incursion here. All along he had wanted her father. _Her father_. Had the mattress to the bed not been leaning against the rightmost wall she would have sagged upon it, utterly despondent.

Instead she uttered a short scream of rage before she hurled her prosthetic fist into the side of the nearest wall with a savage clang. The metal there indented and molded to the shape of her knuckles. One more disfigurement to add to the chaos.

Breath coming in short pants, Roahn slowly pried her hand away from the impact site. The wall might have been worse for the wear but her metallic knuckles were still pristine.

Agonized cries threatened to spill from her throat. She held them all back, though her defenses were straining. The quarian's knees buckled, strength being sapped from her muscles. Hot tears approached the barricades of her eyelids but never made it far enough to start their precarious fall.

Upon imagining what Aleph's twisted hands were doing to her father was enough to pry a low moan from deep inside Roahn's chest. Panic churned and twisted her very mind, a tornado of stupefaction leaving her thoughts scatterbrained and half-formed. That ruthless murderer had played with her mind, her body, like a toy, to be crumpled away and left abandoned. Now he had her father and would soon be applying his depraved misgivings upon him. _Him_. John Shepard, the man who had abandoned everything for his family. For his wife and child.

Aleph wanted _legitimacy_, Roahn realized, and what better to certify such danger than to possess the one icon that had been the posterchild for galactic unity in the last few decades? Was all this part of his test to Roahn, for her to figure out where her directives would take her? Tormenting her like this… the cyborg was utterly _despicable_.

"_Fucking… bastard_," Roahn finally wept as she brought herself low to the ground, head hanging in shame.

She was struggling to hold it all in. The poor quarian had been abused mentally and physically for so long that it was just about to take the ultimate toll on her person. Her prosthetic fingers warbled in erratic twitches—unable to focus on one still movement. But Roahn soon took several deep breaths, trying to claw back as much of her shattered self as she could, attempting to construct a façade so far into the realm of apathy that even her closest friends could be fooled.

Yet Roahn knew that such an attempt was preposterous. Everyone she cared about would know what she was going through. Mask or not, there were some things about her that could be read like an open book. Those that knew of her relationship to her father would correctly intuit her pain, her suffering.

Soon, cold fire radiated past the barrier of blue glass as Roahn slowly rose to her feet. Fists clenched, breathing laborious, she headed back to the elevator and took it all the way back down to the shuttle bay. Everyone was right there where she had left them, all congregated in a ragged circle as they embroiled themselves in fierce conversation.

"…don't understand it," Garrus was talking to Liara and Sagan. "You're saying that the _Menhir_ was never boarded by an actual ship? Like, what, they just _teleported_ onto the deck? And then… they left?"

"Shipwide systems did not detect any physical intrusion," Sagan affirmed, standing noticeably close behind Liara, as if he was being protective of her. "Partial logs from surveillance footage corroborates the theory that an energy transfer was used to transmit matter within the _Menhir_."

Garrus, still a little beat-up from his fight with the Aeronaut, shook his head in resignation. "I… I just… how is that technology even possible? No one has any device that can do such a thing!"

The geth's head flaps gave a singular twitch. "Not necessarily. If Precursor-Aleph had access to a device that was able to utilize quantum teleportation to within an 85.67% efficiency, he would be able to set up a target system in the same quantum state as his source system."

Everyone's expressions looked lost and Sagan swung his head back and forth before continuing.

"Such technology, though not necessarily novel, has not been documented as being perfected to the degree we saw today. Especially when the added complexity of a moving target, such as the _Menhir_, is involved. Quantum states are vast and varied, but still require translation into a three-dimensional space in order to achieve the result of teleportation. That requires a fixed point. The _Menhir_ was in orbit above the hostile moon and was constantly in motion. This exponentially increases the difficulty in adjusting the theoretical aim of such technology—the only way possible to achieve this would be if the enemy had knowledge of the _Menhir's_ navigational codes in order to predict our future trajectories. However, the nav codes are not easily disclosed to external hacking attempts. They occupy a separate drive, unconnected to the network."

"Then someone divulged them," Garrus grimaced. "An informer. One more problem for us to deal with, I suppose."

_And I think I know who it was_, Roahn thought glumly as she stepped next to Garrus, harkening back to the last words Aleph had said to her.

"_**Your friend was very helpful on that front."**_

_Korridon_. Roahn shut her eyes. _You couldn't keep them away forever_.

But she said nothing nor did she plan on voicing such thoughts at all right now. The team did not need to hear what amounted to vague speculation, even though what Roahn's gut was telling her had to be the truth: that Korridon had been the one to sell them out. She understood the circumstances—no one could hold out for very long from the torture that Aleph's cronies were capable of performing. It had only been a matter of time until he had broken completely. After all, according to Aleph, Korridon had already demonstrated his capability for betrayal. And now Garrus could be proven right concerning all the stuff surrounding Korridon's uncle. It was all true; the man had traitorous genes in his blood.

Yet Roahn feared what the general reaction to such a supposition would bring. It certainly would not do anyone any good. Garrus, she knew, would just be apoplectic with rage upon realizing that his initial instinct about the man had been proven to be correct. And the others, their faith in the team would be irreparably shaken. If one of them could fall, what was stopping them from falling, too?

"Roahn, you with us?"

She opened her eyes again to see everyone staring at her. Garrus (who had posed the question), Liara, Sagan, Sam, and Grunt looking upon her with faces mostly in a complex mixture of worry.

"I'm… I'm here. I'm all right," she said before swallowing painfully. She took the next couple of seconds to regain some dignity. "Dad's gone. Taken, I… I don't know what."

Roahn made a point not to glance at Garrus' face to see the pain registered there. He had fought alongside her father for perhaps the longest out of everyone in the group—in the galaxy, even. To witness his own ruminations on the torture of a dear friend would produce nothing but catastrophic reactions in the quarian. She was barely holding together as it was.

"To hell with everyone else," Garrus seethed. "They _won't_ be holding onto Shepard for long. Can we track his omni-tool if he gets within range of a beacon?" The turian looked to Sagan.

"Shepard-Commander's transponder has not been responding since the incursion onto the _Menhir_," Sagan said. "It is likely that the hostile forces have disabled all systems enabling us to track them."

Garrus' head gave a tiny shake, almost as if he was chastising himself for not being there to protect his friend, his crew, his ship. Now Roahn looked upon her captain with anguish, heartbeat producing sickening thumps against the back of her ribs.

"We need to get Shepard back… but we can't ignore the bigger problem on the horizon for long, either," the turian then said, voice tight and regretful. He gave a nod over to Roahn, who had looked away from him by now. He then addressed the group. "Roahn met with Aleph on the moon and he made a disturbing revelation. He has made a device—a weapon—out of the Reaper artifacts we've been gathering. He's called it the Monolith. It's a doomsday device of some kind… but I'm not sure what it does. No one seems to know much about it except that it has the capability to kill millions of people all at once. We're all fumbling in the dark, which is just how Aleph wants it."

Roahn was lightly nodding to everything that Garrus was saying. She had informed him and the others of the cyborg's plans on the shuttle ride back up—how they had managed to completely interpret her panicked babbling remained a mystery to her, but at least she was glad that her demons were being understood and expressed. A little solidary went a long way.

Liara's brow furrowed in caution. "That sort of technology… no one's ever been able to figure out the scope of what it was able to do. Do you think this Monolith might have been the device that enabled Aleph to board the _Menhir_?"

"I _know_ it was," Roahn spoke, her voice gritty and coming out in a light snarl.

It seemed that everyone was trying to appear sensitive to appease the quarian's outbursts of venomous anger. No one could fault her for that, for Roahn had been living with too much regret her whole life, but today it had been her father who had paid the price. What little she had already was slowly being sapped from her control, bit by bit.

Roahn slowly came to the fact that such outbursts towards her friends, who were only trying to help, would not be doing anyone any good at all. She straightened, a more beholden glint apparent in her shrouded visage.

"He'll use it to kill so many," she whispered. "We need to do something fast before he finishes it otherwise we're all dead."

"Roahn," Garrus sighed, "you know that I'm in total alignment with you, not just for the galaxy's sake but for your father's—my best friend, damn it—but we still don't know where to _find_ this bastard. I mean, he could be anywhere in the galaxy at this point and we have no idea which direction to point ourselves in."

"Actually," Liara interjected as she shifted her weight from leg to leg. "That's not entirely true anymore."

Garrus and Roahn both shared a glance in confusion.

"You're kidding," the turian gaped. "So, what you're saying is… wait, what are you saying?"

Liara took a breath. "I'm saying is that Korridon made a complete copy of the last artifact we retrieved from Triton. He had it all up and running on his console and… he did it. He found the energy profile we needed to track Aleph. The calculations, the projections, everything. All this time, he had provided the answer for us."

"_Korridon?_" Garrus and Roahn babbled at the same time.

Roahn took a step forward, nearly blurting out the tragic contradiction that, despite Korridon making all this possible, he had still succumbed to their enemies in the end. She cut herself off with a painful lurch, because she still had reason to hope—they all did. Why diminish the one breakthrough that they had been searching for this whole time?

"I…" Garrus' mandibles flexed once in disbelief. "I… I don't know what to say, Liara. How soon do you think we'll be able to get a fix on Aleph's position?"

"With the data? An hour. No more than two."

"Then start working as fast as you can," Garrus nodded. He then looked over at the group that surrounded him. "We'll be taking care of our losses in that time. But this data… it's everything to us. We find Aleph, we find Shepard."

"_And_ the Monolith," Roahn added.

"And the Monolith," Garrus tacked on.

Liara held a fist up just below her collarbone as she backed away, eyes sternly affixed at her friends. "I don't intend to let you down. I'll point this ship in the right direction, Garrus. I swear it."

Garrus did not reply, instead giving the asari a solemn nod. They both understood that their efforts would never amount to anything less than their maximum potential. Total faith in the other, broad and unwavering. The turian could not help but sigh, a part of him wishing that it had been from his mind that he could have found the key to finding the enemy.

The rest of the group had dispersed at this point, scattering themselves to whatever part of the ship they could help the most. Grunt had gone over to the side of the bay to assist with resetting some of the heavy equipment that had been dislodged during the fighting. Sam had gone up to the med bay to treat any lingering injuries before he could provide his services to the wounded. Sagan had returned to the cockpit, keeping the _Menhir's_ course set, obviously wary and alert for any more potential attacks.

"So, what do you think?" Roahn asked as she matched Garrus' pace towards the elevator door. She tried to keep her tone casual, even though the effort was most likely a foolhardy endeavor.

"We're going to need reinforcements," the turian grimly intoned. "Think this might be a good time to talk with the Council." He then blinked, as if overcome by a thought. His head then hung shamefully. "Damn it, Roahn, I haven't asked you how you've been holding up this entire time."

Roahn's immediate reaction was to shake her head. Perhaps a bit _too_ immediate. "You don't need to. I'm fine."

Any other time and Garrus would have let that slide. Instead his eyes narrowed, trying to pierce whatever bubble the quarian had managed to shroud herself in. Did he think she was trying to shut everyone else out to protect herself?

"You just got back from a very trying encounter, you've been on edge for days, and now your father's missing," he sternly told her as the elevator doors closed upon them. "You are _not_ just fine."

The quarian refused to look at him.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she was able to murmur.

Garrus' eyes did not lift from the young woman's form for a long time before he finally gave up, swallowing a grunt of despair to prevent his frustration from becoming too apparent.

"I don't know, either," he said.

He hated himself for saying those words. The daughter of his two best friends and he could not even figure her out. Garrus wondered if Roahn even knew just how much he sympathized with her, that he would be behind her one hundred percent with his completely unconditional support. Their conversations might not have delved too deeply into each other's mindset, but Garrus did know that Roahn had not been sleeping well for months, that she was exhibiting symptoms of severe depression ever since Triton, and that something that Aleph did to her just hours ago had caused her terrifying and explicit pain, as was the case whenever the two of them had crossed paths.

But how to approach that with her? Any pressure and she would just wall herself off and disengage. He could not offer comfort because he had no way of providing it. Yet seeing Roahn tear herself apart like this, letting such pain eat away at her from the inside, broke his heart. She could only hold it back inside her for so long, bury it deep away in the hopes that it would be forgotten.

Garrus knew that such pain could never be done away with, not completely. It would be unearthed eventually, one way or another. He knew that Roahn would never surrender to it. She would let herself be destroyed by the pain rather than succumb to grief and madness, to have the pain warp her into a hellion of misery and devastation instead of crumbling down to weakness.

The turian knew of the exact sort of pain that raged within the quarian. He had felt it once before—on Omega, on the Citadel. But it had been Shepard that had brought him back, that had prevented his own self-destruction. His anger had faded over time, his rage useless and impotent without a reason to exist.

Yet Garrus knew he could not disassociate Roahn from that rage. Shepard, at that man's core, understood all his friends and comrades so deeply they could not keep secrets from him. Garrus did not have that understanding with Roahn. She did not have anyone to pull her back from the brink.

That was why he was so afraid for her. There would be no one to stop her eventual destruction, no matter how hard he could try because, all this time, this was the one moment where Garrus was truly incompetent.

* * *

_Comm Room_

At each of their pedestals, Roahn found it somewhat curious that the councilors' expressions were more masked than hers.

She was standing off to the side, out of range of the holographic projectors, while Garrus stood in the middle of the room, arms open as he spoke. The meeting was not going well, was the sour conclusion she had come to, and she was sinking further and further into a dark haze, arms crossed over her chest, while the constant stream of excuses and tentative bickering funneled into her audio receptors.

There were four councilors upon the call, one for each race on the Council: asari, turian, salarian, human. Roahn did take note that the asari councilor, Tevos, was the same one who had been in the position when her father was around. Term limits were apparently unlimited for such a position of the highest order.

"_We gave you a fair amount of autonomy for your team, Captain Vakarian_," Councilor Tevos was saying. "_However, that did not come with the privilege of you being able to dictate the decisions we make_."

_Of course not_, Roahn thought. _That's the job of a Spectre, isn't it?_

Garrus was handling the councilors with far more diplomatic grace than Roahn would be able to, so she was glad that he was doing all the talking with the politicians. She had enough cause to distrust anyone in politics from her own experience in the Defenders. Even her mother's autobiography had taken great lengths to decry the petty backstabbing and bickering over the minutia of even the simplest decisions that both the Council and the Admiralty Board had been embroiled in. At least Tali had actually managed to reach a position where she could at least do something about the bullshit rather than just complain about it. Roahn had not been offered such an opportunity thus far.

"I did not come here to demand anything of you," Garrus evenly clarified. "I simply gave you all the information I had, expecting you to come to a resolution that should be obvious to everyone on this call."

The turian councilor, Balvenius, shared a look with his human counterpart, a woman named Elmira Petrović.

"_What you provided was hardly proof for us to enact a call to action_," the man's flanged voice cut across the comm. "_I'm afraid the scientific analyses of these 'artifacts' you transmitted do not convey the need for urgency you are espousing. They are detailed, yes, and very thorough of their intended purpose—a mass eradication device, if I remember correctly—but they are merely suppositions, not facts_."

"Right, and yet one simple transmission was enough for you to disavow your most prized Spectre on the force at the time," Garrus sarcastically muttered under his breath, his composure now starting to crack.

"_What was that?_" Councilor Petrović sharply asked, an eyebrow raised on the stern woman's face.

Garrus gritted his teeth together, trying not to betray any more outbursts before responding.

"Look, councilors, you _gave_ me the authorization to seek and destroy any forces that, in your words, would '_threaten the authority of the Council, directly or indirectly_.' I believe that what I have brought you today is more than enough evidence that a comprehensive plot, perhaps decades in the making, is about to come to fruition against the civilized galaxy, which, _is the domain of the Council_. And even if it is not enough, the very notion that someone could be capable of even mustering such a direct threat is not something to be discounted."

"_So you're suggesting we send all our fleets in to fight? Again?_" Hurari, the salarian councilor asked.

"Yes," Garrus emphatically nodded.

"_Our entire strength?_" Petrović added. "_Leaving our worlds defenseless?_"

"Councilor, speaking frankly, if we don't do anything you won't be around to see what horrors your worlds will fall to. But I don't intend to be a witness to any of that. I'm doing this for the galaxy, and a friend, one whom all of you owe your lives to. I'm going after Aleph, with or without your help. But without will be harder for my crew."

Balvenius was shaking his head as he now appropriated a datapad, flicking a slender finger across the screen.

"_Yes, I'm more skeptical about this Aleph person than anything else. No prior history, no known former whereabouts until now. A man that somehow comes along and is able to perform technological feats that could easily be dismissed as fantasy. Seems dubious at best._"

It was at that moment that Roahn realized the Council was going to be of no help. This was just what it had been like when Shepard had presented evidence of the Reapers all those years ago—and still the Council was so eager to remain blind to the truth! Garrus had nearly reached the same cynical conclusion as well, judging from the fierce twitch in his fingers that he was trying to hide. Roahn was now entertaining the thought of jumping onto the call and commencing a brutal verbal castigation of the councilors, keen on reminding them what the consequences for their last significant hesitation brought them and the galaxy at large. Perhaps, in some roundabout way, it was that body's fault that the galaxy had become so war-torn. Perhaps her mother would still be alive today if the predecessors of these invertebrates had acted sooner.

Garrus dipped his head before he stepped forward to lean against the railing. Even Roahn could feel his anger building from this distance. "Councilors, I've given you everything I have to make your decision. Radiological scans, metallurgic surveys. Hell, I even gave you the footage from my XO's helmet cams when she spoke to Aleph earlier today!"

Roahn perked her head up at the vague reference to herself.

But Tevos was also giving her head a shake. "_Footage that had been deteriorated badly upon our attempts to review it."_

"And your techs should have informed you that such deterioration is a trademark of heavy cosmic ray activity, which _causes_ data degradation. Either the reason for this data failure was from us hanging around these artifacts for so long, or maybe it was Aleph himself who exuded this energy. I can't say for certain."

Tevos smiled sadly. "_I don't deny the fact that you might have been in contact with this person, though you have to understand we are unable to share your sentiment over what you believe to be the best solution. And even if we did, our fleets are in no shape to mobilize so quickly to the strength you want_."

"_We still have not recovered our full strength from the war_," Petrović said. "_And still, adding outside forces to our regiments these last few years has not even replaced half of the forces we lost during that time_."

Garrus had to fight not to roll his eyes. "Yeah, and aren't those 'outside forces' why we're here in the first place, councilors?"

It was abundantly clear that, in that moment, Garrus had made one quip too many for the councilors' patience. All four of them shared annoyed glances amongst themselves—coming to perhaps what had been the quickest consensus in opinion since the Council was first formed.

"_We can only hope that you are incorrect in your assessments, Captain Vakarian_," Tevos now said with a cold affliction. "_Until proven otherwise, our support will remain in an ancillary fashion. I wish you the best of luck. This meeting is now adjourned_."

There was no time for Garrus to get another word in edgewise because the councilors had cut off the call without a second to spare. The turian stared in disbelief at the empty spaces the projections had just occupied for a few moments, as though he held out the preposterous hope that the Council would call them back and indicate that they had conveniently all gone through a change of heart. Yet only silence met him to remind the turian of his ineffectiveness, his restrained nature.

Frustrated, Garrus clenched the railing harder as he lowered his head. Glowering. Infuriated at everything, everyone.

"They didn't believe Shepard then. They don't believe me now. Why did I think that I could change their minds?"

"They're fools," Roahn said as she now walked forward, coming to within a few feet of Garrus' back. "They've only ever looked out for themselves. It's only when their back is against the wall that gets them to act—and even then, all they give are excuses for their delaying."

The talk died down to a dull simmer. The warped hum of the drive core bled through the walls, providing a comforting white noise. The sound of carapaced nails on metal clanked lightly—Garrus tapping on the railing.

"One more barricade of red tape," Garrus groused. "The never-ending bureaucracy. Where does the real accountability end? How much effort does it take to budge those entrenched in the status quo?"

It was almost hard for Roahn to see Garrus like this. Weary and beaten down by politics. As a young child, she had been enamored with wartime images of the turian in battle—he had always been depicted as a fearsome, courageous, and caring individual that was an absolute prodigy with a sniper rifle. A turian with a loyalty to his crew that ran so deep that Roahn imagined that, in another life, Garrus could very well have been a quarian. She had idolized the man for so long that she had thought there was a good chance that he was completely flawless, unable to be broken by anything. But ever since that fateful day she had joined his crew offered one more chink in the metal that was his sterling depiction in her mind.

No doubt her rendering of the man had amassed quite a few chips in its appearance.

Roahn now stood alongside Garrus at the railing that separated the walkway from the projection lenses. "Maybe," she offered, "it's not the people who define the status quo that we have to convince."

Garrus looked over at Roahn, blinking in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

The quarian gave an affable shrug. "My father never actually succeeded in dealing with the Council for their assistance during the war, right?"

"Right," Garrus said slowly, still not getting it.

"Yet he still managed to secure support from the races regardless. It wasn't the councilors whom he brokered those deals with, it was—"

"—The military leadership," Garrus straightened, momentarily awed. "You want me to go over the Council's head? Roahn, I… I'm not a Spectre. I don't have the authority that Shepard did back then."

But Roahn was ready for that answer and she did not want to hear anything like that. She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her helmeted head, a smooth wisp of breath escaping beyond her vocabulator.

"You're going to let that stop you? The red tape is in front of your face, begging to be ripped, and you think that can hold you back?"

She jabbed at Garrus' chest with two metallic fingers. "Where is the man who helped my father call a _thresher maw_ to attack a Reaper? Where is the man who fought through hell in the bowels of the Collector base and left without so much as a scratch? Where is the man who went through everything that was thrown at him, world after world after world, and _won?_"

The turian was speechless as he stared at the emboldened quarian pushing at him directly, her clouded face hiding a frosted anger.

"You _have_ the authority. You are the captain of the _Menhir_, the very person who was by my father's side for years, all the way up through the war. You've helped face down Reapers. You've saved the galaxy several times over. That is your authority. That is what everyone will recognize."

Roahn's next words were almost a pant. A breathless exhalation, the words driven from her throat out of pure emotion.

"Because you're one of the greatest people I've ever known. Because you're _Garrus Vakarian_."

Her two fingers remained precariously balanced upon the middle of Garrus' chestplate, shining viciously from the haloed lighting above. Roahn had embarked into a soft lunge to prove her point, eyes fearsome and decisive as she stilled her entire body. It suddenly grew uncomfortably quiet in the room. The quarian could hear her own blood pounding in her ears but she refused to be the one to move first.

Trapped in the moment, she looked blindingly accusatory, with that hand perched in such a fierce position. The stoic turian made a point to slowly look down at what her prosthetic limb was doing, a sudden lurch taking him by surprise in the corner of his heart.

Then a brief exhale emitted from Garrus' throat. A laugh.

"You've been listening to your father's speeches."

Roahn felt her cheeks grow hot. She removed her fingers from where they had been pointing as she straightened back up.

"I only said what needed to be said. All I told you was the truth."

Garrus' shoulders rippled as he held back another silent chuckle, offering the quarian a soft wink.

"Your father would also have put it as modestly as you have."

He turned back to the projector, Roahn's rebuttal going unnoticed. The turian flicked his wrist towards the console, activating it from his haptic gesture. Garrus' fingers tapped and dragged over several different icons as he prepared the ship's next transmission. The QEC icon glimmered in the upper right corner of the screen—they were within range of a buoy. They would get the highest quality connection to the entire galaxy from where they were.

"Preparing burst message," he said as he hovered his finger over the transmit button. He then looked back over at Roahn before acting, his expression sheepish. "You know I'm no good at this sort of thing, right?"

She just brushed her fingers at him, the universal signal to get a move on.

The console beamed a green light at him. Communication systems up and running. He was live, broadcasting to anyone in the galaxy who was listening. No one was able to see him in his scuffed armor, which dully gleamed underneath the embedded ceiling lamp. They would only be able to hear him.

Garrus took a deep breath, rolled his neck, and bobbed his shoulders. Trying to loosen up the tension that had suddenly seemed to crop up on him out of nowhere. It was time.

"This… is Garrus Vakarian. Captain of the C-APV _Menhir_. Former executive officer of the SSV _Normandy_. I am talking to you today because I am in a time of great need. A need for all your help. A need to finish the work of what my old commanding officer, Commander John Shepard, started for all of us."

A pause rippled through his speech—Garrus' lungs swelled as he let the fire inside him bring him a welcome dose of pain.

"There is no easy way to say this. A few decades ago, we were left with the kind of opportunity that has never been afforded to this galaxy in millions, perhaps billions of years. We were given the chance to define an era that had been previously had construed for us, to seize a moment to make a future for ourselves. But we squandered it. Tainted the legacy of what Commander Shepard—my friend—left behind for us, confident that we would not waste such a valuable gift."

It was easy for Roahn to imagine people of all races, all creeds, crowding around ship transmitters, leaning over one another in crowded hallways, trying to hear every syllable out of the turian's mouth. Perhaps the resulting and scattered crowd could be enough to fill the Citadel. To fill _two_ Citadels. She found herself nodding to what Garrus was saying.

"That legacy… is not yet lost. But it will be soon if we do not act. For even now, a new and devastating authority has been gathering its strength, waiting for the chance to strike. That time is almost upon us all. But I know you may be asking yourself who would possibly carry out such a brazen attack? The answer has been surrounding us for years. Dark money, private militaries, and one individual at the head of the pack, with their hand on the trigger of a weapon more powerful than we have seen conjured before, one that not even the Reapers could have imagined adding to their arsenal. I know I would be asking a lot for you to take me on faith, which is why I've structured this message to broadcast all the information we have collected to give proof to my words."

A war chant dimly echoed in Roahn's head. There was a particular tempo to Garrus' way of speaking. Tribal. Percussive. A crescendo that kept building and building.

"Join me! Join my crew as we fight to bring this madman to justice. I cannot guarantee that our conviction will bring us victory, but I know this much is certain: I would rather die fighting to preserve my friend's dream rather than sit back and let it crumble to decay, to corruption, to apathy. We've taken the serenity of our lives for granted once more—I will not allow us to go back into such remission. And regardless if we find victory or defeat, my own conscience will be lifted of the weight that has been hanging around my neck for so long. The words to our epitaph will be a celebration, a testimony to the galaxy that _we were there_ to save it from ruination. We did not sit back and let others do our work for us!"

That imaginary war chant became a sustained roar. A clamor of bass and treble. Multicolored. Varied. Even Garrus seemed to be visualizing a crowd as he raised his arms slightly, fingers spread, voice growing louder.

"So, I ask you, what will be _your_ epitaph? Will you find the strength as the ones who came before you did? Will your closing words be a memorial to your actions, or a vague sentiment doomed to be forgotten? My crew proceeds forth, not to further inscribe ourselves into legend, but to uphold the oath—the idea—that we deserved this second chance. This is your future too. I'll fight with you for it. All you have to do is join me."

Garrus dropped his hands back down and stared directly ahead, at the blank wall past the holo-projectors, the glint in his eyes having lost their luster.

"We're counting on you to do the right thing. This is Garrus Vakarian… signing off."

The last words only lingered in the air dryly for a single second before vanishing into the ether. Garrus looked down on the console and undramatically cut the connection with a single tap of his finger. He then leaned back over the railing, appraising the close wall, staring out into space as he soon became lost in thought.

Roahn hung back at a respectful distance, hands clasped together, not wanting to disturb the man. Several minutes passed in silence. The distant vibrations of the ship were all the more apparent through Roahn's boots. The beating of her heart did not subside in its speed, for there was very little in this room to calm her.

After about ten minutes did Garrus finally move from his position to look down at the console. He solemnly stared at the reply counter, where a big "0" was emblazoned. Like the space around them, the clamor had been empty, completely imaginary.

"They're not coming," he said to no one in particular, voice nearing the edge of cracking. "No one's answering."

Only now did Roahn approach, resting her hand upon Garrus' shoulder. "You couldn't have said it better," she told him honestly.

"No, it was lousy."

"I'm being serious."

Garrus creaked his head around, appearing to brighten just a tad, but even the tiniest glimpse of hope resonating within the man was enough to bring Roahn joy.

"Then I'm glad I was able to reach one person," he said before he pushed away from the railing to walk to the center of the room. "At least I can say I tried, which is more than can be said for most. Doesn't matter. We've still got a job to do and we're going to do it."

He then turned to Roahn, a new determination apparent in his face. "Go down and find out how much progress Liara's made on the data. Once she's finished, prepare the ship to move out immediately. We're going after Aleph. For the galaxy. For your father."

A feral grin crept across the quarian's face. _There_ was the turian that matched the image in her head.

"Yes, sir," Roahn replied with a vicious bob of her head. "_Hell yes_, sir."

* * *

_The Citadel_

The elevator door to the apartment slid open, allowing Irissa to enter the sanctity of her domain. She tiredly rubbed at her scalp before she adjusted the collar of her suit—after spending all day seated in congress, embroiled in debates, enacting legislature, fending off malcontents within her own party, and formulating answers to the press, she was exhausted. Her chronometer showed that, if she started preparations for sleep now, she would be able to get in at least five hours of a decent rest.

The asari walked further inward, the heels of her shoes clicking on rugged tile flooring. One of the benefits of being faction leader for one of Thessia's largest political parties was that she was well compensated for her duties in rallying everyone in that party under a singular mindset. The salary was sufficient enough to allow her to purchase a flat in the _750 Eternis_ building, one of the most luxurious high-rises, stationed in the heart of the station's Financial District. The apartment here boasted a 270 degree view, with aweing shots of the Citadel's inner ring apparent from one side of the balcony, to gigantic and splendid vistas of Earth on the other. Irissa barely spent any time on the balcony, one reason being that she had been warned time and again that venturing outside without any guards was a major security hazard for someone in her position but she did not want to expense the installation of bulletproof glass bubbling her inside, as she believed it would be an eyesore to the décor she had spent years cultivating.

Irissa had spent thousands and thousands of credits on an interior designer, obsessive over having her home decked out with accoutrements that would derive immediate feelings of jealousy in her rivals and envy in her friends. The designer had been renowned back on Earth and hailed from the Russian Federal Union. The person in question had founded perhaps the best international design and architectural studio on the planet—naturally Irissa had wanted her input when it came to renovating her apartment.

The two had been in agreement that they would eschew the Bauhaus or avant-garde expressionism of Irissa's contemporaries. The asari wanted a home that would feel warm. Inspired. The designer was all too willing to accommodate.

The living room featured a slatted wall of natural wood from an endangered forest as a way to mask the column that held the ceiling up. The wall was supplemented by a brass rack with wooden inserts so that Irissa could place some pieces from her sculpture collection upon it. A sofa by an opulent asari brand, Ver, was situated against the wall, colored olive-green. Hanging overhead was a ring-shaped chandelier comprised of thousands of delicate crystals, custom-made by the firm Matteo Athos Fiore.

The dining area consisted of an open kitchen with a circular table, in which a dripping gold vein had been embedded. Wooden soft panels, colored the barest gray, helped give the smooth contours a light touch. The bathroom was also receptive to the same extravagance—double sinks (despite Irissa being the only occupant), spiral crystal light inserts, and a zebra-striped floor made out of Panda marble. The shower was a glass cube in the middle of the room, replete with rosewood benches. A detachable showerhead had been slotted into the corner, capable of washing in any configuration at any pressure.

The fantastic display was left unappreciated by Irissa as she proceeded to walk into her office, the sparsest room in the office by a mile, but no less ostentatious. The enormous window, spanning the entire height of the office—offered a wonderous view of Earth and the full length of one of the Citadel's arms. A good portion of the room here from the entrance on was empty—a decent place to embark upon pacing tirades. But a closer look would reveal that Irissa and the designer had carefully constructed a theme of patterns upon the room. Gray linen couches flanked the sides of the office, which foregrounded a triptych from an abstract salarian artist. A dark marble fireplace stretched upwards, seemingly beyond the ceiling. Pops of green waxy plants broke the faded color of fog. Pencil-thin chrome lamps punctuated the area around her desk, where she had a MonoForm chair that cost more than the yearly salary of one of her staffers. Retainers of twisted cane and orchids enhanced a natural focus on a bookshelf to the right of the desk. A media center, capped with lacquered glass and ridged with beige stone and copper speckles, sat plaintively to the side.

The asari headed for a liquor cabinet, charcoal acrylic and more marble flowing here. From there, she withdrew a stout bottle of a dark amber liquid—a human alcohol. She poured herself a glass and did not bother letting it sit before she took a sip. Dark fruit—cherries, perhaps—macadamia nuts, and leather made themselves known on the palate. It had a hot burn to it, the sign of a rather young whisky.

As she chewed the whisky in her mouth, swishing it around to intensify the flavors, Irissa turned towards the window, basking in the glow from the planet and the station, finding a grateful relief that she was home to revel in the silence, with none of the insipid and gnawing voices chattering at her ears here to slowly drive her insane. She could play the political game as well as anyone, but it still took a toll on her, one that she had been fiercely determined to never let others see within her.

The clicking sound of a mass accelerator weapon being primed broke through that silence, slicing right through the dark.

"Turn around," a voice said behind Irissa.

The woman recognized the voice right off the bat, a sour smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth. She slowly complied, silhouetting herself against the bright night behind her.

From out of the shadows, in a corner of the office, the sound of heavy boots upon polished stone began to resound. An armored Cirae, completely encased in thick plating, levelled a pistol straight at Irissa's chest. A belt filled with thermal clips had been looped around the younger asari's waist. One of her shoulder guards had a jagged cut in it, almost as if something had taken a bite right out of it. Her face carried a grimness on it that just edged out Irissa's own expression, not at all reveling in what she was doing right at this moment.

"Don't even bother to try and call this in," Cirae hissed. "I've already disabled your local network. It's just us right now."

Irissa swirled her drink, not breaking eye contact. Defiant to the last. "I guess I now know why Veyre never reported in. Useless bitch. Nothing more than a four-million credit write-off. Apparently, she was more loyal to you than I thought."

Cirae slightly shook her head. "No. She did exactly what you wanted. Almost succeeded, too. To the best of her ability, she tried."

"Evidentially she failed."

"Evidentially," Cirae repeated tonelessly.

Irissa took another sip of her drink, making a point to smack her lips obnoxiously to try and get a rise out of the intruder.

"I can probably guess at how you're feeling right now. Conceited. Arrogant. Pleased that you've finally managed to come out on top of something in your pathetically short career. Apparently, I underestimated your eradicative habit to try and bend reality to meet your will. To a point, that trait could be laudable. But with you… _delusional_ is how I would define it."

Cirae stepped forward, holding her weapon evenly, in a practiced grip. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, in cold anger.

"I'm not the one who called out the hit here, _Irissa_."

"Oh, _please!_" Irissa spat with a lurch. "Don't pretend like you're the epitome of righteousness, Cirae. You don't _get_ to act like you're above us all. You thought that you could put up a façade and play your part in the grand scheme of progressive politics. But it never worked—we all saw through your performance. We knew you were putting on an act! _Act, act, act_, that's all you've ever done since you walked into this congress. Who did you think you were trying to fool? Us… or yourself? Either way, you're still more of a hypocrite than you claim I am. The difference here is that I don't _pretend_ to be a moral person!"

The faction leader's eyes then flicked over to stare at a particular point on the side of Cirae's gun. A cruel smile came to her features.

"And I think the fact that you haven't scuffed off that insignia on the side of your gun tells me that you're not ready to accept your new persona, or am I wrong?"

Cirae did not need to look at what Irissa was referring to. She knew full well what was printed on the side of her gun. In black, a slatted sun, flares like tentacles groping from the edges. She had kept the weapon for all these years, never once thought of getting rid of it. It was meant to be a reminder, a dire warning for her not to slip back into old habits. But she had been pushed, and pushed, and _pushed_ so far off the edge that the time for reason had long passed her by.

"We all made choices we regret when we were young," Cirae gritted, but her tone was beginning to waver.

Irissa gave a snort as she took a seat at her desk, not bothering to ask Cirae for permission.

"We didn't all join _Eclipse_ when we were young," the elder asari retorted.

When Cirae did not respond and even paled a bit, Irissa gave a harsh and unforgiving laugh. "You thought you had put that part of your life away from everyone else, did you? Small mistakes have a habit of defining one's life. It's something we all have had to deal with when we were maidens. The curiosity. The restlessness. Trying out mercenary life seems like an obvious choice for many, though little thought for how it affects their future is generally given to such a decision." She took another sip of her whisky, not reacting to the alcoholic bite one whit. "But I do recall you didn't seem to particularly take to the mercenary life, if I read your file correctly. Still, ten years under that banner was a long while for you to come to your senses. That was when you joined the Union's military, I believe. Seems that was where you found your taste for public service. Always the good little soldier, following your orders. Perfectly content to wallow in your naivete."

"Stop trying to bring me down to your level," Cirae seethed, jabbing the pistol forward to add emphasis to her words.

But the maddening smile still lingered on Irissa's face. "Bring you down? You were at that level before I ever was, Cirae."

The younger asari was flabbergasted. In her nearly four hundred years, she had not been beholden to such a deranged and enraging person before!

"Even now," she whispered, "you dare lie to my face?"

Irissia's resulting hand gesture was artless, completely nonchalant. One would think that she would be a little more respectful while staring down the barrel of the gun. Either the faction leader had had a turbulent lifestyle before going into politics, or she was the one more naïve of the two.

"We're not here to discuss events centuries ago that may have precluded us meeting here tonight. You are the one right now accusing me of placing a kill order on you. Again we see the hypocrisy, for you have done exactly the same thing!"

Cirae stepped forward, shoving aside the designer chair that was in front of the desk, and nearly pushed the barrel of her weapon against Irissa's head.

"Stop talking."

But Irissa did not back down. Quietly, she gave a tiny scoff as she looked up at her tormenter, a silent judgment running through her head.

"Do you think you can stand there and honestly believe you're the more virtuous out of the both of us? Who do you think I learned this tradecraft from?" She folded her hands together after pushing aside her half-full glass. The faction leader then gave a noble nod towards Cirae. "The disgraced lieutenant, eager to gain back favor by wreaking vengeance on those that wronged her. You were one of the first to speak out against hiding the beacon in the temple and thus were one of the first to be silenced for your outbursts. Did you think we wouldn't be monitoring you afterward, keeping tabs on your whereabouts? Does it seem obvious now, knowing that we _saw_ you hand over all the information you had to that justicar several years ago?"

Cirae did not know what to say. Her mouth had gone uncomfortably dry. A tiny waver jolted through her arm, emitting a slight tremble in her weapon. Irissa's eyes flashed to the tremor, a nasty grin showing gleaming white teeth.

"It was too much to believe in coincidence when, days later, the very person in charge of the Athame Temple cleanup, Colonel Eneris, was found _dead_ on the street. Someone had thrown her through a _window_, Representative. A window on the fifty-first floor of a high-rise on Thessia. I managed to arrive just in time to see the paramedics scoop Eneris… my friend… off of the pavement. Her skull had been cracked completely open. Pieces of the broken window had sliced her body open to the bone. Her brains had splattered all over the ground, and the blood… there was so much _blood_. If you had heard the wailing of the children who had the misfortune of looking on that grisly sight that day, I know that it would have also haunted you until your final days."

The truth of the matter that Cirae did have an idea of what it felt like to be haunted. She could remember that day so clearly in her mind it was almost as if it had been yesterday when it had happened. She had been glued to a news feed upon hearing the demise of Colonel Eneris' death. Eneris, her old superior, the person behind her downfall in the military, now lay dead in pieces on the public ground, a horrified crowd clustered around her smashed body. The network had not censored any of the gruesome images, for they all showed, in living color, the bright splashes of red chunks that spilled between blue-scaled cracks in Eneris' head, the distorted bubble of the asari's dislodged eye that dribbled from an empty socket, and the spilled flecks of shattered teeth sitting in blood pools like newborn pearls.

As she had continued watching that, Cirae had slowly sunk into a heap upon her floor upon realizing that all of this was her doing. Samara had misunderstood her intent… or she had misunderstood Samara. Cirae had never wanted Eneris _dead_, she had just wanted her to be pressured into taking responsibility for the asari's mistakes during the war! But either Eneris had refused Samara's relayed demands or Samara's only remedy for the colonel's arrogance was to have her disposed quite messily and very, very publicly. The justicar had never contacted her after that and Cirae had never sought to search for answers. In time, the asari had hoped that the fright from this event would pass, like a fleeting thought, and that she would just have to settle for coping with this subdued dishonor for a while more.

"All coming back to you yet?" Irissa snarled, snapping Cirae back to the present. "This escalation was started by _you_, Cirae. All we did was answer in kind. When a sanctioned commando squad tracked the justicar to that Ardat-Yakshi monastery and obliterated it for good, we had hoped that would have been the end of things between us. All loose ends tied up, nice and neat. Imagine my surprise when, years later, I see you walking into the Assembly hall, a newly elected representative. You thought you were home free. You thought you had left your old life behind once more, that this would be your fresh start. All in the service of your own selfish tendencies, not understanding what tortures some of us have to withstand every single day, out of fear from losing everything we have. Money. Power. Our _families_…"

Irissa then trailed off as her voice seemed to give out. Her bottom lip trembled as she was soon succumbing to intense shivers. Cirae said nothing, but her mouth parted slightly as she realized that the corners of the older asari's eyes were rapidly becoming wetter. Irissa was crying.

Struck, Cirae looked outside herself, rapidly becoming disgusted at her appearance, at her actions. _I haven't changed at all, have I?_ Slowly, she lowered her weapon, no longer pointing it at Irissa's head. Tentatively, she placed an empty palm on the table, her face taking on a sympathetic look for the first time tonight. She did not see a being to completely forgive in the woman weeping across from her, but there was still something left inside her that possessed a conscience, a valid reason to live.

"Then help me, Irissa," Cirae quietly begged. "We can end this dark cycle together. Who was paying you to fund the PMCs? Tell me their name. All I want is their name."

But Irissa was despondent, shaking her head back and forth.

"It won't matter. I… I can't tell _anyone_…"

"Yes, you can. Please."

Now Irissa met Cirae's eye, no longer audacious or provocative. Something in the older woman had broken—awakened, perhaps—and now she was more vulnerable than she had ever been, in front of the person she probably hated the most.

"Cirae, I-I'm sorry. It's too late. If I did tell you… the things they would do to me…"

"Then they'll be after me too," Cirae declared, slamming a hand down upon the desk in an attempt to snap Irissa out of her funk. "I can help you, but you have to help me first."

Irissa's smile turned watery as she shook her head yet again. "It's not just me they'll hurt. They promised to go after my children. To torture them in ways you couldn't even imagine. They said they would keep me alive long enough to hear their final screams. Then they would ruin my name, tie it all to the Athame temple. I would live in time to see me established as the scapegoat… and then I would be disposed of."

Mind frantic, all of Cirae's previous thoughts of killing Irissa had all but vanished as she stowed her pistol back into its holster. She could still walk out of here with her dignity intact. Both of them could.

"I'll help you get in touch with C-Sec," she said. "With the Alliance, with anyone. We can put your family in protective custody, where they'll be—"

"—safe?" Irissa finished with a harsh laugh, throwing her head back for good measure. "There… is _nowhere_ in this galaxy that is safe. Nowhere at all. Don't you see? I'm a _part_ of this cycle. I'm not the only one they have control over. It's not just the Assembly. It's the Alliance, too. And the Union. And the Hierarchy. And the Republic. And everyone! Everyone is in on the farce!"

Slumping in her chair, the faction leader, once renowned for her superiority in the debate hall, had become listless and empty-minded. Glassy eyes stared out at nothing. A mouth hung open momentarily to only voice empty breath.

After a while, she regained her composure enough to speak, her voice now at a deathly whisper. "You… you have to leave. Go, get off this station. I'm too entrenched in this but you… you're still clear of their reach. But you need to leave now, while you still can."

"Irissa, I don't—"

But the asari cut Cirae off with a hand, eyes closed in serenity, having miraculously found a locus of energy that allowed her to sit up gracefully.

"Promise me you'll get as far away from this place as possible. But you can't linger too long. You need to keep moving to keep yourself and the people you care about safe. They'll find you otherwise. And they never stop hunting."

"But I don't _understand_."

A subtle twitch teased the corner of Irissa's mouth as she sat up straight. Out of sight, before Cirae could realize what was going on, the faction leader's hand slipped to a hidden drawer underneath her desk.

"I wish I never did. Goodbye, Cirae."

The savage outline of the curved pistol in Irissa's hands was barely noticeable in the dim lighting. Cirae's eyes widened in a microsecond as she beheld the weapon and immediately lunged to stop the asari.

"_No, don't-!_" she screamed.

But Irissa had jerked herself away from Cirae's scraping reach at the last possible moment. The older asari swiftly brought the barrel of the gun underneath her own chin, squashing it against the flesh of her neck, and with all her strength, slammed down upon the trigger.

There was a quick popping noise. Light and smoke emitted in a blinding bubble that flared into existence, enough to brighten the room for the barest of moments.

Then there was nothing.

Lying half-atop the desk, Cirae was aghast in horror as the only remaining sound was Irissa's body slumping off her chair to land on the floor out of sight. A thick tessellation of dark splatters had based themselves across the room and onto the window—a motley series of blots like resin that dripped and drizzled down the surface. Crimps of heat flourished their way upwards from the pistol that lay on the stone floor, the diodes embedded within the construction fading away to a dull simmer.

Realizing that she was hyperventilating, Cirae tried to combat her fierce shakes as she pushed away from the desk, away from Irissa's body. She increased the distance between the far wall as her breath painfully lodged in her throat. The whole room seemed to spin. It felt like she was drunk. There was even the fleeting inclination of bile churning within her gut, the urge to vomit wanting to become more and more apparent.

She kept the feeling down after a series of intense gasps. Fingers still trembling, she staggered her way from the room and clambered her way into the elevator chamber, making sure to lodge herself well into the far corner of the lift, with one hand on her pistol once more.

The doors slid shut on the terrified asari's face before the tiny box began its downward descent.

* * *

**A/N: Now comes the final act! All the pieces are in place. Roahn's journey into hell awaits.**

**Also, I'd keep an ear out for any Mass Effect news next week if I were you. The rumor mill is abuzz with many hopeful reports and I'm chomping at the bit for any sliver of hope.**

**Playlist:**

**Liara's Heroics/Sagan's Charge**  
**"No Escape"**  
**Tillman Sillescu**  
**Crysis 2 (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Aleph and Shepard**  
**"The General"**  
**Christopher Drake**  
**Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Garrus' Speech**  
**"Opening Credits"**  
**Michael McCann**  
**Deus Ex: Human Revolution (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Faction Leader Suicide**  
**"She's Rigged"**  
**Harry Gregson-Williams**  
**Metal Gear Solid V: Ground Zeroes (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	30. Chapter 30: Our True Selves

"_They say all great works are never truly finished. Well, our team has surely given credence to that mantra."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_A boundless slate, coddled by gloom. Sparks slide across the floor, their flickering doomed to be swallowed up by the powerful adumbration. They fail to light the base of the monument. An ever-fleeting glow, a candle-like incandescence, is all that can be perceived in the matte surface's reflection. But only for a second. Just a second._

_The silence speaks. A cavity, a nihility, broadens. It feeds on the dark, on the quiet. A hungry mouth, desperate and insatiable, constantly devouring, constantly nourishing._

_That hunger is given form. Invisible in the shadows, it grows strong. It pulls and rips worldspace apart, tearing at threads inconceivable. Dimensionality has no meaning—the hunger is a spike, puncturing from one fabric to the next, a surfaceless center whereupon spears of its dark power are thrust out, without warning, latching themselves to pasts, futures, beings, and matter._

_All food for the mouth to feed upon._

_Against the impervious boundary, the ingot of sable, an emulsion soon became known upon its premises. The mouth takes notice and immediately begins to devour. The emulsion has no taste, but the mouth finds a longing sensation, a nourishment, from the food. A rancorous energy drifts through rigid pathways, branching like veins, underneath the hardened surface. The energy itself has a color to it. Obscure and murky… a garnet shade… burgeoning to cerise before drifting into a flaming vermillion. The color then evaporates, leaving black in its place, returning once more to silence._

_But the mouth would not easily relinquish the feeling of gorging itself upon this new source. It still lingered in its presence. There was more for it to feed upon! This origin, this food, was a matrix of data, enormous in nature, all drifting within the emulsion's genetic code. The structure of its cells, a lifetime of knowledge. Of experience. Memories. Feelings._

_The mouth craved more._

_It feasted on this elixir, a seemingly bottomless well of energy. That energy furrowed down ornate metal pathways, concentrating into a central point, a locus, deep in the heart of the machine. That power grew, swelled, and strengthened the more it drew from this source._

_It ate, because it was told to. Because that energy had a purpose—to be released into parts abound. For others to gaze upon its wonderance. That expulsion was its destiny. Voices whispered to and from it, proclaiming words of inevitability in colorful tongues, almost hymnal. It was swept with the chorus, feeling a powerful call tug at it, sending it surging across spacetime, to exist in one singular location at one singular time._

_But for now, it would feed. It would feed, and feed, and feed, until there was nothing left._

_Because it was told to._

* * *

_Thessia_

Rain was assaulting Cirae's world by the time her chartered vessel landed upon it, drenching and flattening the flora in gusty wet bursts. Water splayed out in white cones as the altitude thrusters of the passenger frigate touched down upon the metal platform to the Provincial Cultural Center, a streamlined building that easily towered over all other structures in the town. Cirae was the only one to exit, a waterproof coat acting as her only protection from the downpour. She marched across the elevated platform, three stories above a sloped and grassy knoll, to reach the entrance to the building.

She did not take note of the dreary scenery. On a clear day, one would be able to see the snow-capped mountains of the valley that separated her district from that of the capital city, some two hundred miles to the southeast, as the _arkra_ bird flies. The gray wall of descending precipitation put a damper on her already foul mood—merely another reason for her to ignore the doldrum-like circumstances of her current setting.

A jitter of lightning momentarily cast everything in black and white. Rain sloshed down her scaled head, dripping into her eyes, and over her mouth. Cirae paid little heed to such discomforts, shoving her hands in her pockets while the thunder drowned out the noise of her sloshy footsteps.

An aide was waiting past the door once Cirae entered, offering her a greeting and a towel to dry off, but Cirae rebuffed both. She simply shook her arms twice to clear them of fluid—savage motions—as she never broke stride to continue down the hall.

The corridor here was stark white. Treated steel and lacquered alloys. Calligraphic glass and metal flutes—hallway lamps—had been embedded onto the walls every few feet. Occasionally, a hologram would match Cirae's pace to display some fine work of asari art from across the ages. Visitors to the cultural center would usually be bombarded with such extravagant displays that spanned millennia of asari history, from the time her people had risen from the sea until the day they had clawed their way out from the carbonized dust and the maze of dead Reaper hulks. Even as a child, Cirae had felt the entire thing was a little tacky, especially now after the war had finally ended. Bragging about asari accomplishments at a time like this—what hubris. She had always hated this place, even though this building was technically where her home office, as a representative, was located. Sometimes people just had to bear certain burdens in order to get through life.

As she walked through the center, Cirae had to constantly rebuff offers from building assistants trying (as helpfully as they could) to ascertain where Cirae was heading. In her disheveled appearance, it was somewhat natural that she would not be easily recognized but that did not stop her from feeling a twinge of annoyance whenever she was asked if she knew where she was heading _in her own building_.

The conference rooms were a level above. A gently-sloped spiral rampway curled upward in the foyer—Cirae confidently strode into it, her gait indicating that she was sure of her direction. Upon reaching this section of the building, Cirae's eyes scanned for the proper room, quickly reading the numbered holograms upon the doorways. It took a few turns around corners, but she finally managed to locate the room in question that she had been searching for. The asari raised her omni-tool in front of the locking mechanism, waving her credentials in front of the panel. The door icon smoothly transitioned from red to green, slotting aside with a series of oiled clicks and shudders to let her pass.

Miranda Lawson and Avi Ben-Zvi looked up from the polymer conference table as Cirae entered, having taken opposite seats across from the other. Both were about to rise from their chairs but the asari raised a hand to have them stay where they were. Cirae then shrugged off her jacket and carelessly flopped it over a chair instead of availing herself to the hangar on the side of the wall. Rainwater dripped from the slick garment, puddling around the legs of the chair.

Cirae walked around the side of the table where Avi was sitting first. She let her fingers softly drift over the man's shoulders and provided him with a tired smile.

"Doing all right?"

Avi's eyes flicked to the side momentarily, as if that had not been the question he had been expecting from her.

He merely replied with a wordless nod at first. "You?"

"Feel that a short rest would not be unwarranted right now."

"Didn't sleep on the flight over?"

Cirae shook her head as she took the chair at the head of the table. Rain lashed at the window behind her, the occasional flicker of lightning exposing silver spires of the cityscape, fracturing the light upon several different surfaces at once.

"Couldn't," she sighed. "Too much for me to think about."

Resting her hand upon the table, Cirae shifted in her seat as she looked over at Miranda, who had been watching her attentively ever since she had walked in the room.

"If I haven't already said it yet," the asari's lips momentarily bumped upward lethargically, "thank you for looking out for him." She tilted her head in Avi's direction.

Miranda simply raised her fingers off the table as she dipped her head once in acknowledgement. Hallmarks of one raised to honor _noblesse oblige_. The woman had shed her conservative diplomat's clothing from the last time Cirae had seen her. Miranda was now wearing an ensemble that was clearly military-inspired. Heavy duty pants (replete with pockets). A rigid black and gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She had even put her hair up in a ponytail. Cirae privately thought that Miranda looked a lot more natural in this getup—political apparel suited the human's form, but it was clear that a functional vestment was far more comfortable for her to don.

"I would have hoped that I could have helped ease the both of you into this realization gradually," Miranda said as she took a glance out the window. "The galaxy's moved faster than either of us could fathom and we're all just struggling to catch up. Power is a vacuum and there are people out there who will gladly rush to fill a vacated space."

"Right, because you have experience operating from the shadows, is that it?" Cirae retorted, somewhat more acidly than she would have intended.

The human shook her head. "I never pretended to know everything, Cirae. I just promised you that I would help peel back the curtain."

"Consider it flung wide fucking open, then. Everything's changed, Miranda. I thought that we would have been smarter by now, as a society. But I guess even that was a bit too optimistic, huh?"

"It is what it is," Miranda said. "But would you willing want to be blinded to reality after knowing all this? Of course not, you confidently made that choice when you decisively invested yourself into digging into the layers. You revealed their involvement but have also exposed yourself, just like I warned you. They've got you marked—which was made clear when they sent people to murder you in your homes. Only lucky that they underestimated your skills… or the friends you keep. Anything less and we wouldn't be talking here right now."

"Wait, I'm sorry," Avi interrupted as he leaned forward. "When you say '_they_', who exactly are you referring to? My impression was that the councilors were at the end of this maze of corruption, but if you're referring to others outside of the political sphere..."

Miranda bobbed her eyebrows and levelled a flat look at Cirae that could have been translated in a multitude of ways.

"Writer," she addressed Avi ruefully, "if you think the councilors are the ones at the end of this maze, then you're still hopelessly blind to the problem at hand, even with your supposed talent."

Cirae could tell that Avi was rankled by the comment. Even though the man worked in journalism, a career in which fostered those with the fieriest tempers and the largest egos, he had not yet had the pleasure of brushing up against a person like Miranda, who had the ability to turn the environment frosty cold with a few well-worded sentences and to make the deepest cuts to his pride that would serve to bleed the most.

"Then… if not the councilors," Avi stammered, "then where do we look from here?"

Miranda shrugged as she rested her chin upon a hand, ignoring the bursts of thunder that threatened to shatter the windows in from the outside.

"You're still assuming that we're living under the same hierarchies. The same political structure. That's all changed, writer. It has been for quite a while now. You might be looking at the last two individuals in our government that have outright resisted the lull of the war machine." Miranda then folded her hands together as she gave another nod in Cirae's direction. "I'm willing to guess that there might be one less conspirator by the time you left the Citadel, correct?"

Avi blinked, not yet understanding. He turned to Cirae. "What's she talking about?"

Cirae allowed the sound of the pouring rain to take dominance in the momentary lull. She blankly stared across the table, out into space. A dull ring began to punctuate the soundscape in her ears, a lingering damage that had only just accumulated last night, from a large explosion in a small space.

"Irissa's dead," she said flatly.

Miranda sagely absorbed this with a nod, like she had been expecting such news. Avi, on the other hand, yanked his head back and forth between the two, his expression only growing more and more confused.

"Dead? How the… did you _kill_ her?"

"She took care of that for me all by herself," Cirae shook her head, a grim note creeping into her voice.

"Then… did she… did she _say_ anything to you?"

Cirae's lip twisted in the vague interpretation of a scowl. "Only that she was being pressured to act the way she's been acting in order to not be made a scapegoat for… for all the things the asari have been doing wrong." She got up from her chair in a stroke of restlessness, now making her way towards the waterlogged window. "She also intimated that the corruption that took hold of her has already infested every governmental branch across the galaxy. Whether it's a business entity or a person is anyone's guess, but it's already too late. We've been outmaneuvered and we've never known there had been such a conflict going on. It had started ever since the Reaper War ended, an invisible war for total galactic control with the PMCs as the pawns."

Silence threatened to bleed through the white noise. The asari stood with her nose almost touching the window, not flinching as the blasts of lightning flared downward, sparking along the ground, gripping the antenna on the tallest buildings in sight.

A staccato tapping of fingers on the table—Avi was getting restless. No doubt he was conflicted, as were all of them, about succumbing to the notion that, despite the work they had just started to accomplish, it was all over. They had failed. They were lost in a veil of fog, blindly groping out landmarks to direct their next course of action. The wave of frustration was already beginning to crest—Cirae could feel it deep inside her, a storm in the process of raging.

A storm that seemed to echo the one she was looking at right now.

Miranda gave a cough that was swallowed up in the stale air. She then checked her chronometer. "Getting scattered reports of fleet mobilization across the civilized sectors. Something's been going on all day. There's a communications array on the other side of town. We should venture over there when the storm subsides."

Avi rubbed at his lightly bearded cheeks, head shaking back and forth in abject horror. Cirae did not respond, too mesmerized by the maelstrom outside. The dark churn of the overhead clouds, the lashing sting of the elongated raindrops.

"And…" Avi sighed as he placed his palms flat on the table, "what are we going to do after that?" He then looked around the empty table, growing more and more helpless with such a stark reminder of abandonment. "What are we going to do now?"

Continuing to stare at the window, Cirae let the question hang in reticence, unable to clearly think, her self-loathing growing all the more stronger knowing that in this moment, when she should have an answer, she could not provide one.

Beyond the glass pane, the rain continued to drench the land. Another bolt of lightning split the sky in a frightening display.

* * *

_Menhir_

Once the elevator doors opened, Roahn swiftly exited and crossed the scant expanse between the small bay and the threshold that marked Garrus' cabin, her arm already prepared to knock upon the closed door. To her surprise, the door had already been set open, allowing her to walk inside at her leisure. Somewhat sheepishly, she let her arm drift back down to her side.

Garrus was seated at the couch at the lower section of the cabin, the room having mostly been put back together after the boarding fiasco the ship had recently suffered. The bed had been placed in its original spot and Garrus' personal belongings, however few they might be, had all been set back to where they had been before. Roahn could still see little bits of debris dot the carpeted floor where she walked. The skylight, from which the indigo hue of FTL-induced lightshift warped down, still had a crack in it. The dent Roahn had impacted into the pillar had also not been buffed out either, she shamefully noted.

The turian's head had been serenely tilted upward, watching the blurred remnants of starlight slice on by the ship in fierce waves of purple. He was looking at Roahn by the time she had descended the staircase, though.

"You wanted to see me, Garrus?" Roahn asked.

"I did," Garrus nodded. He gestured towards the empty space on the other side of the L-shaped couch. "Take a seat. I thought we could use this time to talk."

Roahn blinked but otherwise complied. Garrus waited until the quarian had sat down fully before he leaned forward, presenting her with his complete and undivided attention, resting his forearms on his thighs.

"The ship's final destination has been locked in," he told Roahn. "Lupus 4. It's a dark nebula bordering the Terminus and Council-controlled territories. Good place for anyone to hide and, according to our sensors, it's incontrovertibly the place where we're going to find Shepard and Aleph."

"Good," Roahn merely said, her hands fiercely clenching her knees. "When's our ETA?"

"Eight more hours. Maybe a little less if Sagan keeps our drift down between relays. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

The turian momentarily broke eye contact with Roahn, internally weighing his next words, concerned about the effect that they might have with the woman across from him. Anxiously, he rubbed his hands, giving his fingers a strong flex, before he turned to look upon the quarian once more.

"I never thought that I would be talking to you about this," he sighed. "Up until now, I never had a reason to. We've faced so much already together over the past few months. Sometimes I forget that none of us are invulnerable. And it only took a few days to tear that fantasy apart. Skye, Korridon, and now your father. One gone for certain, the others captives."

Garrus scratched at a mandible in agitation while Roahn remained silent.

"I knew I could never live up to Shepard's example," he continued gruffly. "How could anyone come close? I mean, the man took a whole contingent to the center of the galaxy on a suicide mission and came back with more people than he arrived with. How does one hope to compete with that? What we accomplished together during that time… it was almost unreal. Spirits, the things we _did_, Roahn! All that experience, still fresh in my mind, and… and I thought I could at least come close to replicating it. But now… I'm not so sure. Things are not as clear as they once were. Under different circumstances I would be full of confidence right now, telling you that things are going to turn out all right. But I can't. Instead… I can't help but think we're walking into—"

"—a suicide mission of our own?" Roahn finished softly, her voice soothing and accepting.

Garrus drooped his eyes, consciously noting the relaxed grip of Roahn's prosthesis. He replied with a tiny nod. "That is what I believe this is tantamount to, yes."

The turian faltered, searching for his next words. Roahn, perched on the edge of the couch, continued to observe Garrus' face as though it were a living mosaic. Twitches of muscle, of cartilage, in the man's expressions revealed tiny glimmers of doubt, of worries he was trying desperately to keep hidden. Her own face remained mostly numb, though a tender droop brought on by a deep empathy to the man was beginning to set in.

"You don't need to be indirect with me," she assured Garrus. "I've thought about the risks, just like you have. I've thought about them… and I don't care. It would be to go against all that I am for me to sit back and do nothing. To save my father. To stop Aleph. I have to do this, Garrus, and I cannot bear to think about what would happen if I didn't at least try."

The turian got up from his seat so that he could lower himself back down, this time sitting directly next to Roahn on the sofa. A kindly look now inhabited his eyes, a compassionate and unjudgmental stare that seemed to penetrate straight through Roahn's visor. The quarian was mesmerized—it was like the turian could see the minutia of her facial features without resorting to a strained effort to peer through the glass barrier.

"I _know_ that's what you want, Roahn," Garrus gently murmured. "I couldn't imagine you doing anything else." The glint in his eye then turned steel-like, almost like it was now reinforced by rebar. "But we don't have the luxury of doing things just because we want to do them. Do you think anyone else on this ship shares the same convictions as you? Do you think Liara has the same drive in her? Does Sam? Does Grunt? Do you truly believe that we're all so eager to jump straight into danger, another suicide mission, and risk our lives with the same amount of determination you're demonstrating?"

Roahn's shoulders began to slump. A thickness started to settle over her brain. Things were now muddled. Unclear. The grip her fingers exerted began to slacken.

"I chose this ship's path on the basis that this is what our job would've required us to accomplish," Garrus continued to point out. "But, and I want you to listen to this, sometimes the decisions we make, as leaders, should not be based off our opinions alone. Sometimes we need to take into consideration the people under our command. Do you want to protect them, Roahn? Or would you be able to _sacrifice_ them, if it meant achieving your goals?"

Roahn found that she was unable to voice a reply immediately following this interrogative, even though she had been asked this very question before. Instead, she slowly shook her head, that buzzing pressure still finding solace just behind her sternum.

Garrus then raised a hand and slowly laid it upon the quarian's back, an affectionate gesture. "Neither of us have the luxury of being blissfully blind to what's going around us, Roahn. I will admit, I also thought this would be easy, being a leader. Though I don't know if it was my drive to honor what Shepard started… or if I was too arrogant in assuming I could create a worthy follow-up to the teams he had fostered that made me choose this life. There are just some people who are born with the propensity to command. I was not one of them, but your father was. He knew… he understood the sort of burdens his station would come with. That was what made him the best."

The turian's torso raised as he took in a small breath.

"That's why I cannot guarantee our safety now," he said.

At her barest and most fundamental level, Roahn completely understood what Garrus was talking about. To hear the man saying it out loud was sobering, but it also served to cement the constant dread that had been building up inside her for months on end, ever since the metallic ripping of teeth had parted her arm from her body. It was the heralding of the future that, for a while now, she had been slowly accepting within herself. That despite the best of her efforts, there remained a threshold that she would be unable to fully surpass, to have the bar constantly be raised out of reach, no matter how intense her flails would get.

But to voice her thoughts out loud to Garrus would only bring the man despair. If she agreed with him right now in totality, to concede that her death most likely awaited at the end of this long journey, would serve to destroy the turian. In good conscience, she could not do that to someone whom she had looked up to ever since she was a child, who shared a familial love so bright it threatened to burn out the suns.

She had already accepted the fact that she could die. But Garrus would not want to hear her own point of view on the matter—he still believed in her to a degree she could not. The pressure in her chest gave a firm throb, a stark pain building behind cartilage and bone.

"Dad once told me that he always looks back on the people he lost, dreaming of how he could have saved them," Roahn finally said. "I saw how losing people affected his life, how it altered him. I thought I would never obtain an idea of what he felt like in those moments. To sacrifice comrades… friends. I hate the fact that I know that feeling well now."

Roahn straightened and clasped her hands together as she turned to face Garrus, a weary appreciation evident in her stare. The turian took his hand from her back, his own veneer crumbling away in the face of the bald truth.

"There was once a time when I had no idea what it meant to be my father's daughter," she said ruefully. "For the longest time I resented him for not explaining everything to me when I was little—how I _hated_ the feeling of going to the academies on Rannoch and enduring the stares of the teachers, the students, even my friends. They all seemed to know something that I didn't, that they were all in on one giant secret. Eventually I learned that he never told me the whole story of what he did during the war because that was his way of trying to protect the both of us. He thought, by putting all that behind him, he could give me a peaceful life, a normal life."

Tension grappled with her psyche, fighting for dominance. Roahn had to give her hands a clench to quell the shakes before she continued.

"I think raising me was the one thing that scared him the most. It was not the war or the constant threat of dying that haunted his thoughts. It was the fear that he would screw up taking care of me. He was terrified that I would see him as… as a disappointment. He didn't know how to handle it for the longest time. But there are moments that I wonder what it would feel like if I could look upon him, through the eyes of anyone else, and see what they saw. Would I be proud at the sterling image of the stalwart warrior presented before me… or would I be disillusioned from the ordeal, knowing that that man never existed for me?"

Now it was Garrus who remained ominously quiet, letting the question ring hollowly in the air. Roahn flicked her eyes over to the man some more and noted just how odd it was to see a starburst pattern shimmer its way through the corner of the turian's eyepiece and through the curve of her own helmet, emanating in a rainbow pattern across her eyes.

"I've thought about that scenario nearly all my life," she murmured. "Sometimes I'm envious of the flawless hero people see in my father, even though I know their perception is all on the surface. They aren't ignorant to who he is… just hopeful."

Roahn's prosthetic fingers now rapped upon her knee, the sounds dry and ever so slightly metallic.

"Despite what I may have thought about him… I know there has never been a single moment where he never stopped trying to be the father I deserved. I never had a chance to perceive him as perfect… because of course he wasn't, but I'm appreciative I managed to see the true man my father is. I'm glad I got to know him that way, because our love never became conditional. It was _earned_. He clawed his way out of hell to humble himself before me, to prove that he cared. How could I have wanted it any other way?"

The quarian's throat closed for but a moment, resulting in an uncomfortable hitch in her breathing. But she recovered smoothly, the calm ocean of her mask belying a churning hurricane underneath, cauterized by a deep and internal light.

"He wanted me… and I wanted him," her voice was almost a deathly whisper now. "I still want him. Alienness be damned, I'm _proud_ to be his daughter. That's why I don't care about the risks, Garrus. I have to return the favor to him… however I can."

Garrus hitched his jaw as a newfound silence threatened to swell over the two of them. He counted the seconds in his head, gauging when it was an appropriate place for him to jump in. He watched Roahn carefully, taking stock of the woman's constantly changing posture, translating the slight movements of her back, the twinges of stress that exerted themselves upon her. His lungs ached, eager to release tender breath.

Then he released a valuable laugh. Relief flooded his bones like he had been dipped in warm water. "Want to know what I think?" Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded. "I think, for the entire time I've known you, there hasn't been a single moment where you haven't made your father proud. I think the both of you are incredibly lucky to have each other."

The turian's hand then found Roahn's wrist. Limber fingers patted the suited area there, creating soothing feelings to crop up within the woman.

"And I know that Tali would've been so happy to see who you've become," he added lowly.

He wanted to say more, but the way Roahn reacted indicated that his words would be wasted. The quarian's breath seemed to tense up in a fierce assimilation, but there was no noise to accompany the resulting respiration. Garrus figured that Roahn had disabled her vocabulator for the moment, to minimize the betray of the intense emotions that were threatening to pour from her like she was a sieve.

A few intense but short jolts, quick spasms, wracked Roahn's body. Garrus wanted to look away but found that he could not tear his eyes off of the quarian. A few additional glints coruscated from behind the foamy blue of her visor. Garrus realized, to his slight embarrassment, that they were tears. He kept his head in the same position but now made an effort to look away, lest he would be taken from the same emotion himself that had currently infected Roahn.

The moment was over quicker than he expected. Garrus could see Roahn's chest deeply puff in and out—regaining her breath back, no doubt. Rapid-fire strobes streamed from her eyes—quick blinks. On shaky knees, she got up from the couch, movements slow and lethargic. Garrus followed her upward a few seconds later.

He had no time to get a word in as Roahn quickly closed whatever small distance was between them, her arms wrapping around the man. Profound breaths could now be discerned from her vocabulator again, but they had a slow and controlled rhythm to them. Garrus nearly took a step backward in astonishment before he relaxed in the embrace. He rested his hands on Roahn's forearms, kindly looking down upon her until the quarian had the strength to move away.

"You always were my favorite," Roahn mustered, her voice a little husky. She still had not shaken off the fervor that clung to her like a magnet.

"I know," Garrus chuckled. "You once had my action figure, after all."

Roahn's voice cracked as she bubbled out a string of uncontrollable laughter. Her knees bent to take her weight as her tired head sagged. Finally, the notion of adhering to the demeanor of her station had fled her person. She had been tenderly gripping onto it all this time until now. Stress flowed away from her body like water out of a lock. Harkening back to the sparse moments of her childhood where she could spend hours a day playing with the action figures her mother had brought back from town sent Roahn's mind reeling. As clear as day, she could visualize the collection she had accrued—nearly every _Normandy_ figurine had been accounted for at one point. She would take them on make-believe battles, engage in extravagant shows of force, and dream up scenarios that would not have been out of place in the most fantastical of films.

Of course, her collection had been lost for good when their first house had been firebombed. Roahn had never gone to the trouble of replacing it. She had learned quickly that her fantasies could never do reality justice, with all of the nuances of its agonies and passions remaining untranslatable in the medium of a fabricated miniature.

"Hey," he said as he latched onto her eyes with his own, "no matter what happens in the next few hours, I wouldn't want to do this with anyone else."

Garrus swore he could hear the barest noise of a '_Thank you'_ emanate from the embedded speaker in Roahn's helmet, but the sound was too muffled for him to be completely sure.

"I should probably start getting ready," Roahn said after a moment, voice now taking on a new assuredness. "I won't let anyone make any sacrifices on my account."

The turian wished he could promise the same. Words were so easy, but the intent was difficult to follow up.

"Take some rest, though," he told her. "You can't fix this galaxy all by yourself."

"Maybe not, but I'll do everything in my power to protect those that I care about. I couldn't save Skye. I can still save my father."

_And Korridon_, she thought, but left his name off for now. She was still harboring doubts about his loyalty, after all.

To distract Garrus from following up on her suspicious omission, she perked her head up. "What will you do now?"

"Now?" Garrus chuckled softly, like he had been dreading the question. He took a short glance over to his desk, unable to fully divest himself from staring in that direction for long. "Figure that it's past time that I follow up with a certain someone. I've put it off for too long, now."

It was Roahn's turn to reach out and apply her prosthetic hand—out of reflex—to Garrus' arm. An electric numbness coursed from her fingers to her brain. A dull shadow of a feeling resonated, like her own hand lacked a corporeal quality. The controlled gesture moved and flowed with the natural unsteadiness of a real hand, the jerky and halting qualities of its artificiality no longer possessing the limb. Behind her mask, Roahn smiled, and she was sure that Garrus could discern this, despite the covering.

"She'll be happy you called," she reassured the man. "It's not too late for you to make a difference in her life."

Garrus looked out distantly, focusing on nothing as he held off on responding. "I've made _too much_ of a difference, I fear. But I think the both of are going to realize that we needed this. I have to try in my own way to keep things together."

"Is that the leader in you talking?"

The turian shook his head. "That's the _Shepard_ in me talking."

Roahn gave a singular nod as she let go of Garrus' arm. She turned to leave, heading up the stairs, before she paused to look at the man one last time.

"Then I wouldn't wait too long."

Garrus wasted no time in ascending the stairs that Roahn had previously traversed after the quarian had left. But upon lowering himself down into the desk chair, he was abruptly struck by a heavy hesitation. The words in his head were becoming difficult to formulate. Again. Why was it that he could be struck with inspiration sometimes but in others he could be left practically mute? Nerves clogged up his mind, choking him with aplomb, with glee. It was like his own subconscious was actively warring against him.

Thickly, he shut his eyes and rested an elbow upon the desk, hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles started to pop. Dry aches oozed from his joints. The fresh pain was good—it served as a distraction for his racing mind. Forced him to focus on other things than his own insecurities. Garrus had screwed up a lot of things in his life, but he had the will to do better, to course correct for the decisions he had taken when he thought he was doing the right thing.

And the right thing, in this moment, was to…

"Begin QEC transmission," Garrus spoke to the embedded ship VI after he smacked his hand upon the verbal command button on his desk.

"_Establishing connection._ _Target system?_"

"Local. Earth orbit. Citadel."

"_Target in contact list for this destination?_"

Numbly, Garrus nodded, though the VI had no way of detecting any physical motions.

"Yes. Call… call '_Our Apartment_.'"

It only took less than a minute for the VI to chirp back. Garrus must have made six painful swallows in that timeframe.

"_Connection established. You may now proceed with your transmission._"

Digital fuzz cascaded into being a scant few inches above the desk, liquefying into the shape of an upper torso. The hologram was monochrome blue, but the details were just as sharp to witness as though Garrus was looking at this person with his own eyes. This person's outfit was a little less form-fitting than he usually saw them don, but what was clearly a mainstay of their wardrobe was the flowing hood that they had draped over their head, hiding most of their face in a deep, dark shadow.

The person turned, glimmering motes of their eyes apparent through the gloom. They raised their hands and slowly unfurled the hood from their head, allowing Garrus to see their medium-length and silky black hair, wrapped in a tight bun—a human woman. Two drops of lavender face paint blotted her skin, one on the middle of her bottom lip and the other upon the divot just above her chin.

The woman smiled broadly, carrying several years' worth of a fragile dolefulness eager to be obliterated—dry stalks curling and crackling during a summer's end. It only took that smile for Garrus' fears to be similarly evaporated, causing his posture to relax as he lifted his eyepiece away with fingers that no longer trembled.

"_Gare_…" the smiling woman intoned as she shifted her body to rest her head on the palm of her hand, looking radiant and serene. The singular word held a fierce ardor upon it. "_I'm… I'm glad you called_."

Garrus was not prone to place any stock in unfound and undeserved optimism, but he knew for certain that, right now, he had absolutely nothing to worry about. That was an incontrovertible fact.

"Hey, Kas. Sorry I took so long."

* * *

_Med Bay_

The _Menhir_ was not the loudest ship that Liara had ever been on, but she did have to admit that things were quieter than normal of late. She scanned the faces of the crewmembers she walked by. She saw despair, worry, fear, anger, and flashes of tiny combinations of emotions that she could not hope to put into words. She understood their feelings—this ship was supposed to be their safe haven, their home, and a squad of rogue mercenaries had trespassed onto it like they had carelessly left the airlock door open for them enter.

She tried to give them a determined and gentle look. A face that expressly reassured those in the darkest pits of their sorrow that things were going to turn out all right in the end. She could see some of their faces brighten. Others refused to budge. Those that remained locked in their grimaces perhaps wished to use the pain, the indignation, as fuel to drive their purpose forward instead of succumbing to anguish and hesitation. They did not wish to be saved just yet, for they still held their duty in the forefront of their minds.

Liara wished all of them luck in her head. They were going to need it for the battle coming up.

Out of abject curiosity she soon found herself encroaching at the threshold of the med bay, in part because she needed a welcome distraction after having parsed through petabytes of raw data for half a day, not including the brief moments of panic when she was fending off armed hijackers on the engineering level. Something to ease the mind sounded good.

However, the person she was intended to talk to was in the middle of his own distraction by the time she entered. Sam was leaning his head into his hand, arm propped up on his desk, as he spoke to thin air—the activated volute of segmented light that slowly spun its way around his hand indicated that he was on a call, voice only.

Sam raised his head up as he spotted Liara entering and beckoned for her not to leave just yet. He spoke lowly to himself, the person on the other end inaudible to the asari, but she had a rather clear idea as to exactly who the man was conversing with, judging by his tone and the content of his discussion.

"—so you're doing all right? And Taylor? Has she arrived at the house yet?" The man's face flattened as he waited for and absorbed the answer once it arrived. He gave a nod of relief. "Good. That's good. Glad to hear you're all together. Listen, honey, I don't want to sound like a worrier, but I can't recommend enough that you guys keep your heads down for a bit. Things are… well, it's complicated to even say it out loud. It's just best that you hunker down and keep to yourselves until I call you back."

Sam's face stilled as he was listening to something his wife was saying on the other line. He then split his mouth into a grateful laugh.

"_Of course_ I'm planning on coming back, dear. I'm not _that_ pessimistic!""

He arched an eyebrow as Nya's undoubtedly witty retort snapped back at him.

"Not anymore, I mean!" he clarified. A cold solemnity now thrown over him like a bucket of chilled water, he brought himself lower while Liara watched from the doorway. "I just want to make sure that I'm doing everything in my power to take care of you. All I want is for you guys to be safe, okay?"

A lingering pause. Liara figured that Nya was now proclaiming a heartfelt acknowledgement for Sam's attention.

Sam's smile turned wistful. "I always do, Nya. You don't need to worry. I'm probably in the safest place I could be, remember?"

He looked over to Liara and adopted a harried look, not wanting to be rude and keep the asari waiting for long.

"I have to go now, honey. I'll call you as soon as I'm able. I love you both, you know that, right?"

Liara shyly chuckled and looked away, having an inclination as to what Nya's answer was going to obviously be.

"Oh, and Nya?" Sam quickly added, a final thought running through his brain. "You were right about me, all along. Just wanted you to know that." Another beat passed, but Sam looked like he had just lifted the weight of the world off his shoulders. "I'll see you soon. Promise."

The contortion he had upon himself right now was a distant and detached air that demanded a moment's reflection. After the call had disconnected, Sam spent a few seconds breathing in and out deeply, trying not to let his mind flicker to the dark recesses of foreboding futures that accomplish nothing other than a fermenting unrest, an agitation over one's own abilities to be protective, to be a shield for the people he loved.

The moment faded without warning and Sam turned in his chair, a newfound comfort spreading across him.

"Sorry for making you wait, Liara. Did you need anything from me?"

Liara shook her head and gave a small wave of her hand. "Just doing a round of the ship, see what everyone's up to. How's the nose?"

Sam reached up and gingerly prodded it, face screwed up as though he expected pain to lance up and produce a vivid flinch.

"All healed up," he reported. "Though… I wish I could've paid the idiot who broke it back in kind. Oh well. Life goes on."

The man gestured for the asari to take a seat. She did so with grace, smoothing her hands across her lab coat before crossing a leg. The human across from her was not as refined in appearance, what with his broad frame and unruly beard betraying a Cro-Magnon lineage, but his demeanor certainly had some underlying soft edges beneath the prickly exterior. In an era where there were a lot of people out there who fretted about their looks, Liara felt that it was somewhat refreshing to be in the company of one who, in Sam's own parlance, did not give a shit.

"Checking up on your family?" Liara asked. "Are they safe?"

Sam dimly nodded. "They're back at the house together in Santa Cruz on Earth. Both Nya and Taylor took time off of work to lay low for a couple days. Figure it was best to have them stay far away from major populated areas, considering… what Roahn uncovered."

"Good plan," Liara agreed. "Are they scared?"

The doctor shook his head, thumb over his mouth. "Concerned, maybe. Still a long way from being scared."

"Took a lot of their cues from you, no doubt."

Sam seemed to hold back a wry chuckle. "Now… who said I _wasn't_ afraid?" When Liara did not immediately respond, Sam waved the comment off like he had made a bad joke. "Nah, Nya was always the one with ice water in her veins, not me. You know she piloted dropships during the war?"

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Yeah, her main assignment was to fly troop transports from capital ships to contested hot zones on the ground. Dangerous work, yet she never got shot down. Miraculous, that woman, I tell you. And while she was doing all that, I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, hunkered down in a refinery smack-dab in the center of Wyoming, waiting the war out. I did manage to get over to London in the final few days, in time to see you guys save everything."

Liara tried not to convey too much perspicacity.

"Back then we came in with the whole galaxy behind us."

"Yeah, and I understand we're a little less bolstered this time around."

The asari flattened her mouth and shifted her posture in concession.

"Think there's much cause for unease?" she asked.

Sam shrugged. "Rock and a hard place, Liara. I don't think any choice would bring us complete assurance."

One thing that Sam noticed was that Liara had the uncanny ability to place all of her attention upon whomever she was conversing with. She rarely broke eye contact, seldom blinked, and gave the impression like she was absorbing every word being spoken and contextualizing it in her head so that she could formulate a suitable response. There was no air of condescension about her—rather, her demeanor was very mellow. Unassuming. Almost as if she made everyone in her vicinity feel more important. Sam had a hard time now trying to imagine the asari as one of the most ruthless information brokers during her time—the way she was poised suggested that there was no way she had a violent bone in her body, yet he had all the evidence to point to the contrary.

The human twiddled his fingers in his lap as he mustered a diplomatic frown.

"No, my trust is with the captain and the commander. I'd probably want to be near them to know what the plan is rather than be in the dark and have no idea what's on the horizon. I'm where I need to be. My family is where they need to be. I've got everything in my life as set as it's going to get. That's my personal take, at least."

Sam arched an eyebrow as he tilted his head.

"Though… I wouldn't be opposed to having whatever assurances I have left _reinforced_, if you catch my drift."

Liara said nothing as she began to reach into a pocket of her lab coat. Sam's eyes followed the movement and widened in recognition as the asari withdrew a small glass bottle filled with an oaky liquid. He did not recognize the label, but by the impish look on the asari's face, he could guess that she had made a determined effort to gauge his drinking preferences.

"Think this will be able to help?" she asked genuinely. "To kill a few hours, I mean. Drink and conversation may be more of a _human_ remedy, but… I can't exactly speak against its effectiveness."

It had been a long time since Sam had been pleasantly surprised. Now that the feeling was upon him once more, he was shook at his own nostalgic longing for such circumstances.

"I say let's give it a try," Sam nodded. "I'll get the glasses."

* * *

_Cargo Bay/Armory_

Black felt cloth laid out upon a scratched aluminum frame. Light overhead sterile, uninviting. Quiet chatter arising from all corners of the bay. No intelligible words. Just mumbles. Fragments. A blankness in the atrium, nullified to promote a profound nihility.

From a distant speaker, a driving dissonance throbbed about the bay. Expansive but introspective as a small ensemble unleashed a dark and intense atmosphere in the form of emotive music. Unconventional time signature, loose structure, verse/choruses discarded, there was a distinct attempt for the sound to bypass the typical structures that defined what music was as a whole, to come to a textural conclusion that dared to do something bold, something different. A sound from another age, though its intended message was still relevant as ever.

Three-fingered hands, suited ones, reached down and organized the slender objects on the cloth while the music blared all around them. Dully, they reflected back upon Roahn's crystal blue visor. A variety of knives, laid out like a buffet, glimmered in a deadly smorgasbord. Blades of all shapes and colors shone before her. Carbon steel, titanium, even impure alloys with traces of chromium, nickel, and molybdenum comprised the flattened metal in the selection of knives. There were so many for the quarian to choose from: drop-point blades, turian clip-points, batarian flame-blades, Thessian leaf-blades, trailing-point blades, and even a quarian chisel-blade. All of the grips were made of a synthetic copolymer—easy to wield and difficult to tear out from one's hand, even if the bearer had a suit in the way, like a quarian.

Roahn hefted and took turns balancing each blade with her hands. Some of the weapons were not built for her kind of grip, so they were easy to discard. She eventually settled on her own chisel-blade and the turian-styled clip-point. The other knives were meant for someone with five fingers, so that automatically limited her choices a bit, though her final loadout was no less desirable.

The quarian then walked over to the glass-encased weapons rack. The _Menhir_ boasted a large arsenal and, best of all, the ambidextrous weapons came with adjustable grips so that they would all rest comfortably in her hands. She pressed the button for the rack pins to extend the heavy pistols, pronouncing the selection that she had at her disposal.

But which to choose from? There were so many that she could select, but only one could make the cut. She would always be comfortable with a Carnifex, whose recoil may be strong but made up for it with its tremendous stopping power. A Predator would be reliable, though its ability, or lack thereof, to put down even a hanar with a single shot left a lot to be desired. There was the Arc Pistol, but its high-ampere electric shocks were more suited for synthetic enemies rather than organics, and Aleph would not be so stupid to allow himself to be disabled so easily.

She eventually settled on a Paladin, a white-clad variant of the Carnifex which could shatter shields and armor, even at medium range. If not properly handled, the recoil had the potential to break wrists.

Roahn spun the Paladin in her left hand, the trigger clinking upon her artificial fingers, before she ceased the movement and crisply clasped it in a practiced grip. It felt a little light. It needed a full compliment of clips. Roahn tried to guess at how incremental the weight difference was before taking several dry shots, testing the break of the trigger. Good feel. She racked the slide a few times to get a sense of the spring's stiffness. Nice and taut. She slotted the weapon into her holster.

In comparison, the quarian did not spend all that much time agonizing over her choice of submachine gun. Without considering the alternatives, she selected a Tempest from the rack, and repeated the process of checking to see if the weapon was loaded, if the switches upon the gun worked, and if the slide was appropriately tense. When all her quick little tests checked out in the affirmative, Roahn added that weapon as well to her growing arsenal that hung from her body.

Any more additions to Roahn's selected weaponry for the mission and she would be running dangerously close to her weight limit having an adverse effect on her physical abilities. Still, there was enough of a gap between the threshold for her to add a weapon that packed more of a punch. She looked over the sniper rifles for now—no point in that, seeing as they were going to be in an enclosed space the whole time. Nor did she gravitate towards the shotguns as she already had selected firearms that would take care of close-range action.

She did not need to mull her choice over. She had already selected.

The topmost row of the rack held the largest of the assault rifles, the ones with the guts to back up their beefy firepower. Roahn reached out and pried a M-96 Mattock away for herself. Semi-automatic, low heat bleed, and automatically equipped with a 2.5x precision scope from one of the finest lensmakers in the galaxy, the Mattock blurred the line between assault rifle and marksman rifle. Not the most versatile of weapons, but it was punchy, had a nice weight to it, and could practically drill a hole perfectly into a target's head half a kilometer away without any strain, but it was a master at picking off medium range targets.

Returning with her haul over to a nearby weapons bench, Roahn set each one of her selected firearms down onto the flat surface after she swept her arms across it, clearing away scattered tools and metal shavings. She then bustled off to the nearby armory shelves and rummaged through the stacks and stacks of collected cases for a few minutes—containers filled with weapon parts—scouring through a menagerie of labels and drawers. Quite the clamor resounded from her frantic delving and searching. Several crates and appliances bounced noisily to the ground as the quarian threw all pretenses of organization to the wind, only fixated on obtaining the items she needed. Once finished with her task, she headed back over to the bench, now trailing a low hovering cart behind her with her newly acquired treasures situated upon it.

Using an unlocking pin, Roahn cracked the casing to the assault rifle first, splitting it apart so that she could peer inside its metallic innards. She then brought one of the cases from the cart to the table and opened it. An object that looked like a stemmed chipset was perched upon stalagmites of foam, a thin blue diode steadily winking upon its face. Roahn held the upgrade up, studying it, before she leaned in and swapped it out for a similar-looking part in the Mattock's underbarrel. She smiled—now the weapon would automatically apply a tungsten jacket to the bullets it fired, allowing her increased damage against any form of barrier or armor.

Roahn brought out two more cases and opened them both at the same time. Cubes of polymer, silver, and silicon resided within. A targeting VI and a kinetic pulsar. Applying these would improve the accuracy and the damage to the Mattock. It took nearly fifteen minutes for Roahn to set them inside the rifle's casing and ten more to properly plug both of them in. She plied the test buttons on both of the items, looking for solitary winks of exterior diagnosis lights placed surreptitiously upon them. Her checks both came up clean, indicating that the weapon and the upgrades had been paired perfectly. The smugness had left Roahn's face by the time she closed and locked the weapon back up.

There was more to be done, though. Among the various repositories she had requisitioned for her own use were several ubiquitous parts that were only slightly distinguishable from one another in appearance. Stability dampers, magazine upgrades, piercing mods, extended barrels, and precision scopes were all strewn upon the bench for Roahn to pick and choose at her leisure. Her hands were always in motion as she unscrewed and replaced finely crafted columbium barrels, installed chipsets made by bespoke software firms to allow sabot jacketing and titan pulsars, swapped out the stocks of her rifle for one with a sliding system of counterweights to reduce kickback, snapped on precision scopes on the upper attachment rails, and inserted new thermal conductivity plating made out of high-quality silver to reduce heat damage.

She hefted and dry fired each weapon after she had reached their improvement threshold, testing the sights by performing bore alignments, gauging the trigger break to get used to the amount of force needed to pull it, and overall becoming more comfortable with the weight. She lingered in a standing position, poised and refined, imagining that a domed and silver helmet was gently behind the sights of her weapons. But whenever she pulled away, the image in her mind's eye fled, like a mirage.

Hateful, despicable ghosts. Why would they not leave her alone?

Returning to her routine, Roahn tried to drive such distractions from her mind as she dragged out a crudely welded set of piping from a nearby corner. It was, in essence, a skeletal tripod that only terminated in a thick stalk of black pipe that nearly matched Roahn's height. Garrus had intended to craft it into a heavy weapons rack but had never found the time. She set it a few feet from the wall, and backed up a few paces.

The quarian clenched her left hand and suddenly her side became wrapped in a firelight glow. She raised her arm, omni-sword blazing from her wrist, admiring the vague fizzing of the mass effect field centimeters from her suit. Suspended panels of superheated silicon carbide warped and hummed in a knot of light, stitched together in a morass of an amorphous puzzle. She gave the blade a few test swings. The rhythm had no weight to it, just pure motion. A lilt that beckoned a wielder to possess an operatic edge, a flow that transcended oscillations of mass.

Slowly, Roahn swept her foot in an arc across the ground. A switch in her stance.

A silent grimace slithered past her lips. Roahn abruptly lunged out, giving the thin air a stab. Her blade wavered, trance-like, and punctuated her movement with a watery gurgle. Rotating, she mimed parrying an overhead strike before conducting a rapid series of ripostes that would split a would-be attacker in half from clavicle to sternum. Sheets of searing orange light tied bows about the quarian as her feet stuttered, hopped, and slid upon the grated floor, the only cacophonous noises in the quiet ballet of her battle cadence, the music having ended long ago.

Roahn halted her movements to pantomime another block, blade parallel to the ground. She then swept the sword downward in a diagonal cut, aiming to intercept an imagined blow to her legs. No move was a millimeter out of place in her head. Every action and reaction landed where they were supposed to.

The enemy who infected her mind died a thousand times in the span of ten minutes. Each loping slash Roahn made through the air took off a piece, a limb, or the head of the one she hated the most. But for each time she fantasized about ending Aleph by the power of her own hands, she grew only more impatient, less satiated, unwilling to settle for what she knew she could accomplish in reality. Her blows became more wild, more intense, her muscles straining as she cleaved the air in two again and again. She was building up a sweat while her omni-sword crackled as its incandescent surface scraped through the dusty interior, sparking as it vaporized floating particulates hanging within the chamber.

Just then, the conceptual outline of Aleph made an uncontrollable lunge towards her in her mind, spurred on by a savage invention. Roahn let out a ferocious bellow and made a powerful sweep with her arm, slicing the blade diagonally from the ground up.

There was a brief noise of frothing slag. A tongue of sparks littered the ground a meter away from Roahn. She exited from the backswing of her attack and stared, dumbfoundedly, at the remains of the tripod set she had previously set aside near the wall. It was in pieces now, having been completely hacked to bits during Roahn's rage-fueled spell.

"Damn," Roahn exhaled. "Garrus isn't going to be happy about that."

She left the disassembled tripod where it had collapsed, making a mental note to inform her captain about this little accident later, presumably when they came back from this next mission, that is.

_The mission. Right._

Roahn gave another twitch of her fingers, her omni-sword dying around the limb with a schizophrenic flicker. She pulled up a chair and sat back at the workbench again, but this time she laid her prosthetic arm flat upon the table. Her right arm clenched her arm just above the elbow, finger depressing two hidden clasps there. With several delicate clicks, Roahn's prosthesis detached from its port, the grip in the shimmering fingers growing immediately slack. She pushed it across the surface, the casing making a rough and ragged sound.

A sensitive piece of equipment like Roahn's prosthesis boasted a life of several years between services. But the quarian knew better to put her blind trust in anything if they had even the slightest capacity to break. To ignore it would just eat away at her mind, bit by bit until the doubt reached critical mass, spiraling her towards catastrophe. Better to deal with this now rather than deal with a potential problem at exactly the wrong time for it to crop up.

The panel at the back of the prosthetic hand was easily opened by using a tool to pop it off. Inside she could see the electronic boards and the finely crafted servos. The now one-armed quarian grabbed a fine grabbing tool and began prodding at the delicate equipment inside, testing the fluidity of the movements and inspecting them for any signs of wear and tear. The checks revealed nothing of concern, which meant that Roahn would now have less weight pressing down upon her come her final march to her destiny. She topped off the servos with a thin coating of lubricating oil, dabbed them dry with a soft cloth, and reapplied the panel so that everything fit back together again.

All was quiet as Roahn reattached her arm back to her body. She took in a small breath, feeling complete. Whole. Her fingers flexed back and forth—good dexterity. There were still some final reviews she needed to perform before she could declare herself fit for duty.

Her omni-tool had a piece of software that connected directly to her prosthesis for the purposes of ensuring proper calibration. As she laid her hand upon the bench, palm up, Roahn booted up the program and immediately activated the main program to start the calibration sequence. On their own accord, Roahn's fingers began to slowly curl—this was all driven by the pairing of the prosthesis and the software and none of it from Roahn's actions. Her fingers soon closed into a fist and a tender beeping from the artificial limb soon sang out. The quarian screwed up her eyes as she then tried to mimic the movement using her available muscle contractions. Damaged nerve endings flared uselessly against uncaring receptors, but the prosthesis detected Roahn's intended muscle motion regardless. She held her limb in place, straining her tissues to their limits. The prosthesis simply sat there, recording, building, and adapting the pattern recognition memory before it moved onto the next movement.

For the next three minutes, Roahn's prosthesis went through an array of motions and gestures, splaying its fingers out, clawing its grip, hyperextending her elbow, and even delicately pantomiming out careful routine movements like writing or holding a utensil. Roahn did her best to follow her muscle movements along to each indicated pose. The adaptive software contained a continuous-learning algorithm that could intelligently meld new calibration data into the existing state of Roahn's use of the limb. She had been dutifully following the calibration guidelines for the limb week after week, all for the goal of improving her control, getting her closer to being back to the state she once was and shaking off the input lag for good.

Somewhere in the auditory void of the bay, Roahn could hear a phantom sound. A voice, clear and light. Phantoms, all living within her. Demons that had yet to be expelled from sacred ground.

Nightmares.

"_Does it hurt?" Skye's concerned face gleamed at her._

_Her hand formed a fist in the dim confines of the data core. "From time to time."_

Roahn acted out the motion she could view in her head. Metal fingers clenched into an unyielding palm, starting to take on a tremor so pronounced it was beginning to rattle the table.

"…_I can't take things as fast as you want, Skye. Because… honestly? I'm terrified that I'm going to love you again."_

_The fiery-haired woman, lying on her side upon the quarian's bed, gazed with intent upon Roahn, whose position mirrored the human's perfectly. Heads propped up by pillows, brown eyes delving into opposing notes of silver and mercury, the two remained quiet to let the notes of their own wavelengths form their own song._

"_Would that be such a bad thing?" Skye smiled as she reached out to brush the edges of Roahn's mask._

Now it felt like a splitting headache was encroaching at her boarders. Roahn lowered her head down until the glass of her helmet was touching the table. Her arm, still perpendicular to the flat surface, rattled and shook in its place.

Damn Skye. Damn that woman for making the quarian dare to hope again.

"_Roahn…" Skye croaked out, melted globules of dust and rock racing around her helmeted head as she stumbled to her feet in the low gravity, echoes of dark space coddling all around her._

"_Skye," she murmured, her own hands gripping the boulder that shielded her from the glittering beams scything past on all sides. _

_But was she clawing at the rock in preparation to spring out to get the human or was she merely holding herself back?_

"_Why would—"_

_The crack of a mass accelerator weapon. The small and gentle puff of pyrotechnics at Skye's chest. Her final gasp being uttered over the comms. Her listless body, held up by nothing, falling in slow-motion towards the cold ground._

"_No!_" she cried in both the physical and ethereal planes.

Her eyes flared open like she had been burned. Her jaw clenched and spat a fire that seemed to seep into every pore of her body. She jolted upright as if waking immediately from a long rest.

But in the dark and rarely delved crevasses of her memory, an imposing presence existed. It extoled no vaunting over its victory. No joy towards its torments. It just lingered for a moment before backing away, letting its form vanish without Roahn could firmly fixate on what merely seemed like a terrible feeling.

Suddenly conscious of herself, Roahn turned in her seat, looking to see if anyone had caught her outburst. There was no one on the deck at this time. No one to have witnessed the tiny chink in her armor that had impacted into her very being.

Pulse slowly calming back down, Roahn focused on her breathing. But Skye refused to make a clean break, a fresh stab coming to her every time she visualized the woman's face. Moments of them together infected her: the two of them lying atop crumpled bedsheets, shed clothes lining the floor, their skin pressing against the other as their bodies intertwined, their smiles doing all the whispering. _No… I have to let her be the end. I can't let him take everything from me._ The one quarian—the one person—in the galaxy for the most powerful and deadly being to focus his attention on… why did it have to be her? Aleph's machinations were tearing at her very being as an individual, at what made Roahn _Roahn_. Ripping her apart, one piece at a time.

How long had it been since she had made her vow to repay Aleph in kind? She wondered if this goal was even achievable or if she had managed to fool herself into taking on an impossible task. He played with her like a toy. Every step she made, he was always ten ahead of her. What would make this time any different?

This train of thought was interrupted by her omni-tool suddenly igniting an alert. She had just received a message. Automatically, she thumbed the button to display it on her screen, not giving any thought to the ramifications of what that action would eventually lead to.

The message had no denoted sender, just a line of corrupted code. It carried a singular attachment, not a program that could contain a virus, but a media file. Fairly high quality, judging by the large file size. The message had made it past both the ship's and Roahn's firewalls, so she was fairly confident that it was not carrying any malicious programs within it, though she ran two separate checks to be sure, which all came up negative.

What chilled her blood was the singular line written in the message body. Just two simple words.

_For fidelity._

Roahn moved into a hidden corner of the armory as she struggled to contain her agonized breath. This could not be possible. Once more, _he_ had reached across an ocean of stars to touch her. To prove his grip was infinite. Was this another ploy of his? A trick? She debated deleting the message altogether without looking at the contents. Aleph was just trying to corrupt her mind again, throw her off balance. There was no need to play his game.

But still… "_for fidelity"_… what did he mean by that?

Fidelity… Fidelity…

Shoulders slumping, trying to rationalize that this could not be quantified into a lost battle, Roahn opened the file, reminiscing of an old human tale about a box filled with demons as the connection slowly loaded.

Block text quickly appeared on the screen in the upper left corner. A timestamp, manufacturer header, and serial number were among the information listed. Whatever this was, it took place less than two years ago, according to the file's properties. Then the video began to play. The entire screen was split into several different tiles, each one composed of a different bit of footage. There was a documentary aspect to the configuration of the clips—the perspectives were bobbing and weaving, dashes of sunlight momentarily blinded the lenses of what Roahn now realized were body cameras, and occasionally the resolution would go granular and sometimes become washed of color. Whatever the point of this was, apparently Aleph wanted her to have everything to ensure that there was no indication of alteration. Fidelity, indeed.

The footage gave several tilts before the audio cut in with a sharp crackle. A clutch of voices could now be discerned through the loping series of gazes. Roahn could ascertain that she was watching a unit of soldiers—she was unclear on the race yet—perched within an open-air truck that was moving through the remains of a devastated neighborhood.

Several of the cameras panned up, catching the carapaced faces of armored turians in Hierarchy colors, glossy black and vibrant red. Regulars, operating under orders from a clearly defined chain of command. They sat on benches across from the other in the back of the truck, scattered bits of conversation too jumbled to make out clearly, but occasionally Roahn could piece together a few audible words from the noise. Mostly they were shooting the shit, talking about the most banal of topics just for the sake of talking. Talking about relationships. Feats of masculinity. Finding kinship in favorite media. Anything to deviate them from their doomed slide towards boredom.

There was a crackling sound as the tires of the vehicle abruptly skidded to a halt—several of the camera views lurched.

"_On your feet!_" a sergeant barked as he stood towards the head of the cab. "_Hit the dirt!_"

The soldiers all complied and the resulting tile of perspectives each jolted and bobbed in a sickening display as they all stood and jumped nearly a full meter down to the dusty and cracked ground.

It was difficult to discern the unit's current whereabouts, but Roahn eventually pieced it together herself. Low, overcast skies, bellies fat and gray. A shattered city block coated in a fine layer of desert sand. Crumpled metal facings and boulders of fractured stone littered the road, flanked by gray skeletons of fragmented storefronts and apartments. Off in the distance, a shimmering cityscape through a thin haze, and beyond that the savage ridges of loping blue mountains. Palaven, Roahn figured. Just a regular day for a patrol in the remains of what had once been a bustling suburb of a large metropolis. The soldiers were probably reconnoitering in an area that had not yet been cleaned up since the war—the devastation here did not look all that recent, judging by the level of dust that had caked onto some of the storefronts. Old glass crunched as the soldiers' boots treaded upon them. Many of their cameras panned up to the sky as they watched lazy contrails of fighter ships scream on by overhead, rattling the loose doorways.

The patrol now approached the remains of a blown-out stack of apartments. The alloy sidings of the seven-story edifice were scratched and blackened. Damaged by the spray of debris. Roasted into glass by concentrated Reaper beams. All of the windows had been completely obliterated. It looked deserted, but the company soon formed a ragtag circle around the building, each one holding their weapons closely, none of their hands empty.

"_Radar confirms last visual reference_," a sergeant approached the lieutenant leading the patrol. "_Five contacts inside._"

The lieutenant's helmet nodded. "_Time to begin. Draw them out_."

The sergeant complied as he togged a switch on the underside of his cowl. He stepped closer to the derailed doorway, peering above towards the top floor of the ever-so-slightly listing building.

"_We have you surrounded!_" the sergeant roared to the air. "_You have one minute to emerge from the premises. Failure to comply could result in summary execution. You will submit yourself with your hands in the air and proceed to lie down on the ground, whereupon you will be processed. This is your only warning._"

They did not have to wait long for a response.

"_We're coming out!_" a voice cried shallowly from the building. "_We're unarmed! Don't shoot!_"

None of the camera angles had a particularly good visual, but soon a small clutch of cowering turians soon eased their way outside, hands in the air and trembling. Right away Roahn saw that something was amiss. These were just regular civilians, dressed in ragged and stained clothing. The way they huddled together gave it away that they were a family. A father, mother, and three children, one of which was a toddler. She wondered what was possessing the military to harass these people in this manner.

The sergeant pointed to three other infantrymen. "_Check the interior_," he ordered and they all bustled off.

The father looked all around him and defensively kept close to his family. "_I… I don't understand. W-What do you want with us? We've done nothing—"_

"_On the ground_," the lieutenant hissed. In the background, several rifle slides clacked closed.

Slowly, the family began to sink down on their knees, the patriarch taking great care to be a bastion of calm for his little ones.

"_P-Please… my… my family has done nothing to warrant this_."

"_Shut up_," the lieutenant spat. "_You're in no position to proclaim innocence. We know that a PMC, Trial Two, has illegally taken up residence in this neighborhood. Their movements have placed them consistently at this intersection. Just admit that you've been harboring mercenaries in your home and we will process you and your family immediately for a quick trial_."

"_Harbor… harboring?_" the father was blank-faced as a soldier forced him onto his stomach. "_N-No, we haven't… my family just lives here, soldier. This is our home… it's all we've got. We haven't hidden anyone from you. We're on your side. We support the Hierarchy!_"

"_Regardless, you're still illegally quartered here. Everyone in this sector has been relocated due to damage from the war._"

"_You can't kick us out from here!_" the turian begged. "_We've nowhere else to go, no money to our name!"_

The squad that had entered the building had now returned rather quickly. They stomped from the dim interior, gait full of determination. The lead trooper held something in their hand. They raised their arm so they could show it to the group.

"_Trial Two flag_," the private coldly reported as the blue and white fabric flapped in his grip. "_They've been here_."

The lieutenant's head snapped back to the father, who was now quaking with absolute fear, his expression one of pure hopelessness.

"_No_," he whispered as his wife let out an uncontrollable moan beside him. "_N-No… that… that… that's not ours. Someone had l-left it in… in our doorway… and we took it before anyone c-could see—"_

"_Sympathizer_," the lieutenant declared to the group. The soldiers edged in, fingers on their triggers.

The sergeant, stoic like the rest of his comrades, looked to the lieutenant. "_Take them into custody, sir?_"

A chalky mistral swept through the pulverized avenue, dirt crumbling at the edges of the soldiers' boots.

The lieutenant shook his head. "_Traitors to the Hierarchy. Send a message to the rabble_."

"_No!_" the turian woman screamed where she lay on the ground, her hands clutching her children's. "_No, don't! Please! We're citizens, we deserve fairness! We're not—agh!_"

She cried out as a soldier lashed out with a driving blow with his rifle onto her back. Her husband gave a pained roar at the same time, from the sheer horror and indignation of seeing someone strike his wife. The young ones began to cry at seeing their parents so hurt and afraid.

There was no hesitation from the sergeant as he absorbed the order. "_Right away, sir_." In the footage, only one tile was still as the sergeant levelled a finger right towards a soldier's chest. "_Sidonis, forward_."

Watching the film, Roahn's hand automatically travelled up to her vocabulator. "Korridon," she murmured out loud. A newfound despair came to mind, a wound opening up on a place where she thought she had never needed to defend.

Surrounded by his bloodthirsty peers, the young soldier took several hesitant steps forward. The lieutenant was now holding a new weapon in his hands. He raised his arms, offering it for Korridon to take.

"_You're the last one to make your mark_," the lieutenant said. "_Take it._"

With slow hands that moved of their own accord, Korridon took the flamethrower from the officer's grip. Roahn watched in abject silence, knowing that her words could not dissuade the man. The turian stared down at the weapon dumbly, as if he did not know how to operate it, but he soon made a lethargic shake of his head, depressed the primer trigger and clicked the igniter. A cone of blue flame burst from the muzzle, a lick of orange and yellow waving hungrily at the base.

As if regaining a few shreds of common sense, the orange facepainted turian suddenly seemed to snap to reality. Flirting with hesitation, he looked back to his squad leaders, noticeably shaking as his brothers-in-arms began to chant encouragements in support of misdeeds.

"_Do it, corporal_," the lieutenant pressed.

The prostrate father looked up at his designated executioner. Tears drew barriers down his own facepaint, but he was no longer making any sound. Just an emptiness resided within him, a resigned fatefulness. His wife had drawn their three children in close, her arms keeping their heads down to the ground. They did not want them to see what was coming.

"_Sir…_" Korridon mustered for the first time. "_This isn't… this isn't right. They deserve real justice_."

The rousing encouragements from the group turned to jeers. Anger upon witnessing a moral conscience. Korridon seemed to grow smaller in size, well aware that his minority opinion had just drawn him targeted hate.

"_This is real justice!_" the sergeant crowed in the lieutenant's stead. He walked up and forcibly jostled the flamethrower in Korridon's hands. "_These people aided and abetted insurgents that struck at civilian centers just four days ago! These are the same mercenaries that fire rockets from the roofs of hospitals to hit our military bases! The same people that use women and children as shields and then beg Inspectors General to slap us with war crimes when we have no choice but to take them all out! We don't have the luxury of playing by the rules anymore, Sidonis! This is the only way that we enact change anymore. We haven't crossed the line. It's just been pulled back for us._"

The sergeant gave a shove and Korridon nearly tripped as he was now within a couple feet of the family. His armor was making creaking noises as the turian tried to steady himself. The flamethrower continued to bleed light and heat as the tiny bulb of incandescence serenely wavered in the slight breeze. The other soldiers were now closing in, shaking their fists in a menacing chant. Telling him to do it. To pull that trigger and give himself over to the chaos.

"No, Korr…" Roahn was whispering as she watched. "Don't do it."

She was reminded of her own childhood back on Rannoch, when her own friends had surrounded her while she had held a stolen pistol and were beckoning her to shoot an innocent animal. The churning feeling in her stomach had been nearly enough to make her vomit back then as she had desperately thought of ways to get out of that situation without losing face.

In comparison, Korridon must have been terrified out of his mind, far beyond throwing up in a delirious panic.

In the footage, slanted shafts of pulverizing sunlight pieced the overcast cloud layer, turning the sand-strewn grown ablaze with a sudden brightness. The little speck of flame at the weapon's muzzle nearly blended into the background, which was coarse with the roaring of soldiers.

Korridon still had the weapon pointed at the family. All were at its mercy under its uncaring bore. They could only look at it and see finality, fresh in its rawest form. But Korridon could only stare at damnation, just as bare, but far more damaging.

In spite of the pressure, that constant pressure, amidst the clamor, the incentivizing intonations, the threats of repercussion hanging around his neck and tightening like a noose, Korridon managed to wake up.

He lowered the flamethrower.

"_I can't_…" he whispered.

The sergeant wheeled his head around in indignation as the rabble booed and jeered. "_You're a damned coward_," he rudely pushed Korridon away. "_No better than this lot right here. Part of the same seditious crowd._"

With a fury, the sergeant marched back to the truck and returned shortly later, a light machine gun gripped in both hands. He moved to edge his way in front of Korridon as he shoved a clip into the weapon's slide and aimed it in the family's direction.

"_This is their justice. You'll have yours. Soon you'll learn to not be part of the problem, Sidonis. We're the solution, and this is how we—"_

There was an eruption. Yells rang out. A flock of birds, startled by the noise, abruptly took off from the damaged hulks.

Watching what transpired next caused Roahn to uncontrollably gasp. She had been rapt with attention upon the footage, but what happened next caused her to lose all pretenses of doubt and abandon whatever mental defenses she had erected to protect herself.

Korridon had made a savage pivot of his heels, a dark look now inhabiting his eyes. A gout of crimson flame spurted from the barrel of his flamethrower, but it was not directed towards the family lying on the ground in the dirt and sand. It wrapped around and consumed the sergeant, the fire ripping at him before he had a chance to fire his weapon.

The flamethrower was strangely quiet as it unleashed its long ribbon of fuel and fire. The man who was in its path was not. The sergeant screamed as he was doused in a pure inferno. Flames spat and licked at his body, already blackening his armor and charring his skin. The machine gun in his hands had been flung to the ground in his panic, a few panels still alight upon it. There was a popping noise and several detonations rang out like gunshots—a bandolier of thermal clips at the turian's waist was igniting from the fire! The small explosions blew tiny holes in the man's body, sparks gushing from the new openings, and whirring shrapnel sheared part of his right mandible away. The sergeant, seemingly ignoring the fact that a quarter of his body had just been blown away, threw himself down on the ground in a vain effort to douse the flames—it was no use, the flamethrower's primer had completely engulfed him. In seconds, the pain was so great that the sergeant ceased rolling, now spasming in death throes as a roasted smell came to the air. Many soldiers rushed to his aid to put the fire out, but their efforts would be all for naught.

Still the sergeant screamed. He screamed as hot gases raced down his throat and into his lungs, blistering them. He screamed as his skin crackled and melted away in sheets, revealing tears of light blue muscle. He screamed as his eyeballs swelled and popped, dribbling down his ruined face for the remaining liquid to furiously dry up. He screamed and screamed and screamed until the sound suddenly tapered off—his throat had been burned away. A minute later, all that was left was a withered and carbonized husk of what had been a man, smoke and the smell of burnt flesh tainting the air.

Several of Korridon's comrades had tackled him to the ground by this point and had wrested the flamethrower away from him. He was stone-faced, as though he was in a trance, not fully comprehending what he had just did. The soldiers were spitting curses at him and hurting him however they could—punching, kicking, anything to make him bleed.

In the background, though Roahn could not see it clearly, there were several harsh reports of mass accelerator weapons being fired. From where he was restrained on the ground by the dogpile, Korridon bucked and unleashed an animalistic roar, one that Roahn had never thought she would hear from the man before.

Then she realized what had just happened. The other soldiers had carried out the commands of their superior in Korridon's stead. The family, innocent or otherwise, had received their "justice."

The last thing she saw was Korridon continuing to struggle before the multiple camera feeds abruptly switched off at the same time, bringing respite to the quarian in what had been a tortuous display.

Left alone on the deck of the armory again, Roahn slumped in her chair, unsure of what to do. _Fidelity_. There was an ulterior motive to Aleph's maneuvering here, she was sure of it. But the big picture still refused to reveal itself, despite her best efforts.

Was Aleph doing this to shake Roahn's faith? To make her consider whether Korridon was a man worth saving? All this time she had known the man… he was in no way a violent person! But the footage still resonated in her mind—twelve different camera angles had all captured the same thing, telling her the raw and unfiltered truth that had been kept from her all this time.

_It's a taunt. Reinforcing that Korridon is capable of betrayal_, she realized.

The proof had been there this entire time, right down to the moment when Garrus realized that the young turian had been cited for insubordination. Korridon may have refused to carry out a war crime, but he had been willing to kill to keep that from impacting upon his conscience. His moral compass, askew, made it so that he was only looking out for his own survival, in his own twisted reconciliation. It was how Aleph had made it onto the _Menhir_. It was why her father was now a prisoner.

And now they were headed for him. For all of them.

Roahn's fingers clenched as a tiny growl escaped her lips. She vowed to herself, before the day was done, she would pry the truth from anyone who acted against her, even if she would have to get her hands bloody.

* * *

**A/N: Everyone's been quite patient. Now the final act begins in full. We've got one hell of a story arc to get through, so let's jump in, shall we?**

**Playlist:**

**Roahn and Garrus/Kasumi Call**  
**"A Small Measure of Peace"**  
**Hans Zimmer**  
**The Last Samurai (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Roahn's Jukebox - Arming Up [Source Music]**  
**"Pneuma"**  
**Tool**  
**Fear Inoculum**

**The Video - Korridon's Guilt**  
**"Cordis Die"**  
**Jack Wall**  
**Call of Duty: Black Ops II (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	31. Chapter 31: Tide vs Rock

"_We've been taking player feedback into account here, and we're proud to proclaim that your shields, this time, will no longer evaporate after two measly pistol hits. Now, you've got some actual power behind your protection. This time, you'll be able to take your knocks._

_Now go out there and save the galaxy!"_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Lupus 4_

"Exiting FTL in ten seconds," Garrus said upon the CIC's main dais, the comfortable swirl of simulated stars brightening his face in their holographic dance. "Standby for sublight ignition. Drift angle set, five-three-five."

Around the arrow-shaped terminal hub, several screens displaying outside camera angles had been set up to provide a montage of visual stimuli for the crewmembers on the ship who did not solely thrive off of raw data. They were all showing the kaleidoscopic array of red, blue, and white hues that filtered through like a rapid spin cycle—the only wavelengths discernable at such monstrous speeds. Violent electric surges arced their way across the _Menhir's_ six engines in stuttering and skeletal fingers, the rear boosters flaring brightly as it pushed the craft at speeds eclipsing thresholds that the fathers of physics could not even comprehend.

Standing just below him, behind the main CIC platform, were Roahn and Liara, both staring ahead, set in their own little spheres of confidence. Any convictions of hesitation or other related equivocations had been thoroughly purged from their systems by this point. There was nothing for them to turn back to. They were ready to embark on this perilous charge, to fly the banner in their wake even if no one else would follow. This was a team that had been constantly pushed and pushed and pushed to the brink of exhaustion, routinely toyed with as if their foe had never expected retaliation to be a viable option for any of them.

Roahn was quite eager to make her enemy's miscalculation as apparent as possible as she watched the photomontage of abstract stars whirl before her on the monitors. Tiny and simple, hanging right there, as if she could pluck them from their precarious perches and squeeze their energy from her fingers.

"Three… two…" Garrus intoned.

On the feeds, the vibrant hues cooled down to a dark ocean blue before they tapered off in blinding streaks, severe flashes like ruthless cuts. The _Menhir_, having mustered its way across the galaxy, finally winked into existence in realtime space, a lone dot amongst a driftless tide. The stars behind the ship rippled in its wake—remnants of the brutal effect FTL had on a normal fourth-dimensional universe. Azure streaks still wisped from the curved spaceframe, a cosmic heat that tapered off upon an object's abrupt deceleration.

Roahn stepped forward to the helmsman's station so she could get a good look at where they were on the map. If they had calculated the trace on the radioactive profile of the artifacts, then Aleph was just nearly within their reach.

She could feel a soft pulsation singing in her chest. A humid haze surrounding her heart, a subtle choke. He was here. He _had_ to be.

_Dad… I'm so close. Hold on. Please, hold on._

The absorption nebula of Lupus 4 awaited directly in front of them. Lupus 4 was not like any other interstellar clouds in that its composition was so dense that it obscured visible light wavelengths of objects behind it. To the people on the _Menhir_, it simply looked like they were approaching an area of space in which there existed _nothing_. A cotton patch, colored black, in which there appeared to be no stars, no objects. Just obsidian vapors, streaks of dusky smoke in the void.

The ship's auto-diagnostics was bringing up the elemental composition of the dark nebula right at this moment. Roahn pulled it up on her personal screen. Apparently, the sub-micrometer-sized particles that comprised the cloud was a type of cosmic dust that was coated with frozen carbon monoxide and nitrogen, the two elements that were most effective at blocking all visible light in the area. The ship was also picking up traces of hydrogen, helium, C18O, CS, ammonia, formaldehyde, cyclopropenylidene, and diazenylium. Transparent molecules, though critically important to the creation of stars and planets.

Garrus had now stowed the galactic view of the gigantic map in front of him and had brought up a localized view of the nebula. The cloud twisted and turned like a gigantic serpent, a seemingly organic flow to the cloud that belied its random and enigmatic nature. A thickened and mysterious portal from where galactic life had a chance to flourish, to be born amidst the ashes and specters of worlds that had died billions of years ago.

But in spite of the deluge of information both available in elemental and visual formats, there still remained an uncomfortable fact that seemed to hang over the air of the CIC, a stillness waiting to be eradicated.

Aleph's ship was nowhere to be found.

There was a creak as the turian's hands slowly gripped the handrail in front of him harder. His eyes scanned the map before him, as if he could somehow peer past the shrouding veil that had been enclosed over the area and see everything in front of him. Regardless, there were no icons to be displayed from the ship's scanners, no annotated boxes to pop up and provide a firm heading.

"Sagan," he called to the cockpit using the transmitter embedded in his collar, "is this the best our instrumentation can pick up?"

"_Negative. We have refrained from performing more penetrating scans to prevent alerting the enemy to our presence. Stealth systems are online—we remain undetected to passive scanning technology_."

"Yeah, until someone looks out a window," Garrus muttered under his breath after cutting the connection.

Roahn moved forward to get a better look at the dark nebula and the supposedly empty area it encompassed.

She lifted a finger to trace the winding path it curled through space. "The particulates in the nebula are most likely interfering with our scanners," she said. "It hides Aleph's ship, but it also hides ours, too."

"But we have to consider the fact that we're in his dominion now," Liara pointed out. "We can't just assume that Aleph believes himself to be untouchable. We need to believe that he chose to hide out here for a reason and it wasn't for the advantage of knocking out our scanners. The nebula only absorbs light, so the reason we might not be detecting him right now is that either he's using some chaff device or…"

"He's _here_," Roahn firmly emphasized, preventing the asari from stating what she knew was an impossibility. "We haven't come this far only to miss our chance. The radiation trail led here, didn't it?"

Liara conceded with a nod, albeit there was a slight hint of reluctance embedded in the motion.

"Yes, but I couldn't focus the end of a trail down to a precise location. The dark nebula was the only object in the vicinity of the denoted search area—which, by the way, happened to be the size of a small solar system—so it seemed only logical that Aleph would choose this place to hide."

Roahn nearly slammed her prosthetic fist down, wanting to make a dramatic point, but the action would most likely have obliterated the terminal underneath such a blow and she knew that Garrus would disapprove of her efforts to destroy the ship.

She kept herself composed. For now. She turned to look at Garrus with a strengthened tenacity. "Then we draw him out. The _Menhir_ is equipped with probes, isn't it? Fire a few and prime them to emit radio and infrared waves. That'll lock down his location and will compel him to move into view, if he's around."

_And he is. He has to be._

Garrus thought about the choice presented to him, making sure to turn the idea in his head several times over until he had made his own silent proclamation. He looked to Liara and Roahn both, finding that there was no resistance to this idea. Not that it mattered but Garrus did like to have a consensus when making decisions. Things turned out easier that way, generally.

The turian reached out and used haptic motions to highlight two pinpoint locations within the nebula. Their beacons glimmered and stood tall like arrows stuck in the ground. With a wave of his hand, he sent the plan forward to the cockpit, accompanying the action by engaging his comm once more.

"Sagan, fire probes to the locations I just sent over to you. Once they're in position, set them to begin transmitting consistent radio and infrared frequencies."

"_Acknowledged_."

The ship did not so much as give a shudder as it fired the two probes, one after another. Blue streaks sent hurtling towards the dusty endpoint. Roahn watched their progress on the map in the middle of the room. A timer had been set up in the corner of one screen, estimating that it would take a little less than three minutes for the probes to reach their marks before they could begin their tasks.

Once the probes had maneuvered into place, the icon colors flashed from red to blue. Tiny purple shockwaves—the simulated reach of invisible strands of energy—began to warp from their epicenters. The waves grew from the little icons, morphing into tiny planetoid objects. The translucent spheres did not catch any new objects within their reach right away, but everyone on board knew that locating their foe was not going to be as easy as sending out a few measly pings.

"And now we wait to see if someone'll bite," Garrus grimaced.

It turned out that they did not have to wait long. Not two minutes had passed when one of the probe icons on the screen abruptly winked out, closely followed by the other. The radiating waves from the focal cores ceased. The map was now two points darker, as if the nebula had swallowed both probes up with an eager maw. Garrus narrowed his eyes in consternation as he toggled his controls, wanting to make sure a connection malfunction had not occurred on his end.

"Status?" he asked Sagan. "Any chance of requiring contact?"

"_Contact with the probes has permanently ceased_," the geth reported. "_All communications have suffered an immediate connection loss_."

Liara shared a look with Roahn. "Not an accident. They were _fired_ upon."

The quarian nodded, eyes sage. Almost as if she had known the outcome without needing to wait for any reinforcement.

"Confirmation enough" she murmured. _Someone is out there_.

Her hand automatically dipped to where her pistol was holstered at her hip. Roahn's assault rifle and submachine gun were slotted at her back, the weight acting as a comfortable reminder of the force she was capable of exerting. She felt raw at this moment. Dangerous. But locked in this ship, she was as vulnerable as anyone else. Helpless and at the mercy of their skilled pilot to see them through to the next stage of their mission. That energy, trapped with nowhere to go, was brought to a furious boil within her, keeping her primed and on edge.

_Come on, you bastard, _the voice in her head lowly intoned while she kept her gaze locked to the map, waiting for a new contact to blip into existence there._ Show yourself. I have yet to pay you back for your 'courtesy.'_

The pulsation in her head turned into a dark thrum, emanating within her ears. A low red noise that was tied to the beating of her heart. A drum-like chant. War tempo. It made her throat feel like it was trembling. Unconsciously, she flexed her left hand, a despicable tingle radiating from her fingertips. A tender throb coddled the shadow of her arm, an electric ache brought on by misfiring nerve endings. Roahn screwed up her face, trying not to let the pain take her, and clenched her hand while silently counting down from twenty in her head, trying to drive it away, to let her anger crest over it and wash it out to the sea of her subconscious. This was too important to have her arm act up on her now. She had been struggling so hard, healing for so long, that to have all that undone at this critical moment would guarantee not just her end, but the end for everyone she knew and loved.

The slanted glare that simmered its way through her visor, argent light seemingly ablaze with a lustrous flame, held a physicality of its own, a hatred so tangible that it possessed its own capability to wither, to decay.

The quarian would have her revenge or perish in its pursuit.

She shook out of her fugue as she heard Garrus' comm suddenly erupt.

"_Visual contact acquired!_" Sagan called out. "_One new profile—scanning registration records now. 10.1K kilometers bearing at zero, seventeen_."

Everyone looked to the displays on the board as a new icon joined the two-dimensional representation of the combat zone. The cameras on the _Menhir's_ exterior immediately honed in on the raptor-like ship that was slowly pushing its way out from the dark cloud. The color of burnt russet, the vessel was the size of a frigate and streamlined. It had large wings reminiscent of turian craft, but its design was sleek and arciform like that of asari make. The way it slowly scythed its way forth from the turbulent swirls of black appeared as if the ship was slowly materializing into reality, showing itself as it emerged from a distant portal.

"We've got a profile match," Liara said as she brought up a new screen for everyone to see. "The _Morningtide_. No known affiliation. No shipyard of origin."

Garrus shook his head in disdain. "This thing makes your old Shadow Broker ship look like a toy in comparison. Look at those weapon emplacements. It's built for covert strikes."

He was not kidding. The _Morningtide_ was boasting at least six free-axis turrets on the wings and the gunwale, two underslung fixed cannons at the front, and several depressed slots on its frame that obscured torpedo and cluster missile launchers.

"Heat emissions are not entirely hidden," Liara observed. "They're suppressed but not completely invisible to sensors."

"Do you think they have us on their scopes?" Roahn asked to whomever would answer.

Liara chewed her lip. "No way for us to tell… unless they start shooting. We've already given away that we're in the area and blown the element of surprise. They know someone's here. Our stealth systems make us hard for them to get a lock on us when we're not in combat mode, so we should be safe. If the _Morningtide_ intends to attack, they just need to wait for us to make another move in order to be able to hone in on our emissions."

The foreboding vessel, cradled by the nebula, floated sinisterly in place, loitering with a benevolent patience. Aleph's surety in tactical form. His ship boasted the ability to fend off a small attack fleet and he had the home field advantage on his side. Roahn's brow furrowed as an angry sweat began to build up there. The _Menhir_ was perhaps the only ship in the galaxy capable of taking this beast on in a straight fight, but the problem was not going to be the efforts it would take to destroy it, but to _board_ it.

Her mission pounded with a resounding frequency in her head. Find Aleph. Find her father. Save everyone else in the process.

Standing tall at the helm, Garrus narrowed his eyes in a tentative curiosity before he touched an edge of a tactical minimap to display it in full.

"This thing's going to have to kick off sooner or later," he murmured. "All right, here's the plan. We engage our sublight drive, maneuver in a wide arc with our engines as cold as possible. Once we're in range we deploy the Kodiak and attach it to the—"

"_New contacts!_" Sagan's voice blared urgently throughout the ship's hold. Red engagement lights began flaring across the ceiling and down the pathways that ringed the CIC, throwing the interior of the vessel into a dark chamber the color of blood. The geth had triggered the all-hands alert. "_Multiple craft emerging from FTL in the engagement area!_"

Roahn's pulse rose to an uncomfortable speed as she beheld several new signatures blinking into existence around the circular map. The cameras were picking up faint winks of brief oscillating light too—remnant energy from completed FTL jumps. It looked as if new stars were being born all it once around them. One by one, the thick clouds parted to reveal the outline of several ships making their way through the nebula, all congregating into groups that shared similar constructions that were a direct disclosure of their cosmic origin.

"That's Group Tamma," Garrus pointed to a cluster of new ships at the edge of the map. "One of the asari Republics' battle fleets."

"And here," Roahn indicated. "Alliance Third Fleet. Two heavy cruisers and a company of interdictors. Keelah, they've even got a dreadnought—the _Denali_."

"A salarian fleet is warping in too," Liara reported. "Turian fleets, as well. We've got… nearly sixty contacts in our vicinity right now. All four Council races. These can't be _our_ reinforcements… can they?"

A massive silence befell the small group, almost as if a weight had simultaneously pressed on each of their chests, momentarily robbing them all of the ability to speak.

Garrus blinked, somewhat hesitant. "If they're with us… why are their transponders not on? We're not seeing any IFF tags on the map."

He was right. Normally an attack fleet, regardless of their affiliation, would have their transponder signal be turned practically to full blast. The fact that the _Menhir_ piggybacked onto the same Council channels was the reason why they were able to view the other ships on their scope, but all they were getting was generic receiver information. Nothing at all to denote battle strategy, wave positioning, or even a link to any allied ship tag.

To confirm that point, Garrus initiated the _Menhir_ to begin broadcasting on a secure loop. He timed it to relay burst transmissions to prevent hostile tracking, just in case.

"Attack group, this is the _Menhir_, Council-affiliated vessel. Respond to this hail if you were following the directions outlined in our previous transmission."

A quiet mesh of static was all that emitted over the comms. On the visual feeds, the trio could see all four battle fleets slowly start to converge on the other side of the nebula, sable tendrils brushing at the underbellies of the cruisers. The human fleet integrated into the turian fleet, which consolidated with both the asari and salarian groups as the formed a wide phalanx. With the _Morningtide_ leading the pack.

All facing the _Menhir_.

Enormous dreadnoughts brought up the rear, their powerful engines glowing to a sapphire simmer, mass accelerator cannons hot and ready. A barricade of cruisers formed the next line—stocky Alliance vessels, smooth and gliding asari Crawlers, accurate and armored salarian ships, and clawed turian Mooncrushers. Their fixed weapon emplacements rippled with potential energy, capable of punching holes clean through a capital ship. Swarms of single-pilot strike fighters buzzed around their home ships, an angry force field eager to disengage and strike out at a moment's notice—the screen was not defensive, but merely an offensive one currently being leashed by patient commanders unwilling to let go of their attack dogs so easily. While this was going on, the weapons capabilities of the combined fleet strength were slowly being filtered over the CIC's screens, much to the team's dismay. To say they were outnumbered and outgunned was perhaps the nicest way of assessing the situation.

In that moment, everyone on board the _Menhir_ finally understood just how far Aleph's reach had been able to grasp. The plans he had laid, the structures he had set up, the hierarchy that he had developed. All routed down to him as the progenitor. The sole point. The true architect of the new galactic order.

"No…" Roahn's voice uttered in a low moan as she watched the armada position itself accordingly while laser lock warnings began to pop up on all of the tactical screens. They were being targeted, yet Roahn was still numb to that fact. "The humans… turians… everyone. They're not with us. They're with _him_."

* * *

_SSV Denali  
__Prison Block_

James Vega was in a bind.

The cell he occupied was a five-sided cube—a blue-tinged force field made up the sixth—and it lacked much of the creature comforts that he had come to expect with residing on an Alliance vessel. Though he had been tossed in the brig before on a couple of occasions in the past, he had truthfully forgotten the level of spartan-ness that being in such a room entailed. A metal bench with a thin blanket and a limp pillow made up the sorry excuse for what resided as a bed around here. A tiny aluminum sink with no mirror had been crudely bolted onto one of the walls. The toilet was made up of the same metal, but since privacy was not a privilege in this place, there was no barrier to place between him and the guards if certain business needed to be conducted.

The prison block on the _Denali_ lacked any individual qualities that would set it apart from other Alliance ships. Walk around the interior of one ship, you've pretty much seen them all. That all but guaranteed that James lacked a window view.

He had lost all track of time ever since he had been incapacitated on board this damned ship and had a black bag stuffed over his head before being thrown in here. The crew, ever loyal to their admiral, had obeyed their commands dutifully by depositing him in this cell, whereupon he had spent probably the first few hours of his confinement blearily regaining his final semblances of perception back after they had been so thoroughly discombobulated. The days had turned into one monotonous blur alarmingly quickly. In space, it is hard to determine how much time has passed in a certain period, a state that becomes even more so pronounced while incarcerated and not even allowed access to a chronometer.

For all he knew, a month could very well have passed—the crew of the _Denali_ did their best to keep to an even routine around here, to keep his mind set in a lull with no variations allowed to penetrate the system they had set up. His only interaction with them was when they came around to give him his meals. This was usually preceded by an armored squad all shouting at him to face the wall and put his hands upon it, lest he receive a beating for not following orders quickly enough. He tried to count how many times this routine had passed him by, but soon his counting fumbled and he quickly lost the motivation to continue. The only thing he had to determine how long he had stayed here was the current length of the stubble his beard had acquired. It was still relatively short, but quite scratchy and covered a good portion of his face and neck. Though this did not help James much—he had not grown his beard out in quite some time that he had forgotten how long it usually took him to reach this length. In essence, his powers of deduction were useless right about now. That was a shame.

What was somewhat of a consolation was the fact that his cell bordered Jack's. The tattooed ex-convict had also been stuffed into the brig, same as him, meant to be left down here and forgotten. The walls here were not soundproofed and the two had attempted, on a couple of occasions, to call out and converse with each other. But speaking, apparently, was a no-no around here. The _Denali_ crew, every time, would subject the two to a sonic assault—a high-pitched ringing emitting from a speaker in their cells so loud it made them cry out and curl up on the floor—in order to get them to be quiet. The sound was so deafening it felt like it was rattling their brains around in their skulls from the sheer vibration—mustering through such torture was impossible. They had learned their lesson after a few go-arounds for this particular punishment, and that was perhaps the most frustrating aspect about this, that he knew that only a few inches of steel separated him and Jack but he could not do anything about it!

James had fallen into an impatient silence as the days flew by, waiting for Admiral Huston to show his face once more. _Huston_… that bastard. The marine still could see the man hovering over him in the ghosts of his memory, Phoria's blood darkening the admiral's navy-blue sleeves. James had never liked Phoria to begin with but that did in no way mean that such a violent death had been warranted for the quarian. Whatever lengths the quarian had gone to obtain power, apparently Huston had beat her in that regard. But what would make the admiral so willing to sell himself and the lives of his crew in service to someone else? What could be more important than his mandate? Than the protection of the galaxy? Either Huston had severely undervalued himself or there was something else going on behind the scenes that James had not considered.

He wondered what might have become of him had he not run into Jack during that party, or anyone else that had provided a willing ear for him to spill his grievances. To take a chance and follow-up on a pressing discomfort, one that proved to have made linkages in an expansive and branching series of pathways stemming from one bureau of society to the next. His duty would have most likely followed a mundane schedule, slowly indoctrinated into becoming a taskmaster for the admiral. Would he be no better than a mercenary under Huston's employ then, trapped into carrying out the admiral's dirty work like the men on this dreadnought? As far as James knew, had he not stopped to talk to Jack that day, he would still be a free man right now. Free in body, but not in mind. His conscience would have remained sown in conflict, rather than set in its assuredness like it was right now.

No, the tradeoff had been worth it, he decided. A clear mind under guard was worth more than a tormented one left to roam.

Still, James was pining for a little more independence these days. Remarkable what the removal of one's freedom made a man long for.

There was now a clomping noise at the hall of the brig. James raised his head to see a commander in full armor walk by his cell without sparing him a second glance. Out of sight, he heard the footsteps halt shortly after—in front of Jack's cell.

Something was amiss, here. James could feel it in the air. The fact that the other guards who had been flanking the hallway were now mysteriously gone added more questions to the ever-growing litany in his head.

"Just the two of us, now," he heard the commander's voice swerve around the corner, talking to Jack. "No one here to disturb us. A little fun before things start getting underway."

If Jack had mustered a response, James had not been able to hear it. Instead he heard the commander give a dry chuckle—the footsteps picked up again after the draining sound of the cell's barrier deactivating gave a distant thrum.

"You look good like this," James listened to the commander as he headed deeper into Jack's cell, his own horror growing in a dramatic and palpable sense. "Restrained. Tame. Shame about the tattoos, you would've looked more attractive without them."

_You asshole_, James thought, not daring to speak lest he bring about the sonic torture again. He pressed himself to the wall, ear against cold metal, ready to spring away and to clamp his ears if things went badly in there, unable to fully divest himself.

He could hear a distant rustling of armor plates. A tiny zip from a bodysuit followed. Now disgust joined the menagerie of pertubations that collided angrily against one another in James' head, a feeling of disgust churning deep in his gut, despondent and agitated.

The commander seemed to be satisfied with himself. "Not normally how I would conduct this, but apparently you're not exactly the cooperating type. You know how this game works. Mouth… open… now."

James nearly slammed his hands against the wall—anything to deter this!

"Yes…" the commander gave a hiss from beyond the wall. "That's an obedient girl. But now we're getting to the—"

The man's words abruptly trailed off as James heard a meaty _click_.

There was a distinct pause and then the most unpleasant screech rapidly began to build in volume before it became an ear-splitting wail. James shot away from the wall, initially thinking that the sonic disruptor had been powered up again. But it quickly dawned on him that it was the sound of someone screaming that was the source of the noise. And it wasn't a _woman's_ voice. A horrible, horrible scream. Like someone unable to wake from a nightmare. Sweat and shivers immediately imparted themselves upon his back. That sound. _Jesus_.

James staggered back over to the bench in his cell, in a daze, not noticing the resulting commotion that was occurring just on the other side of the wall. His heart was still furiously pounding up until the noise of footsteps now moving away from the cell came to him. His head slowly turned to face the source of the approaching person. He was in for quite a shock when a familiar sight soon came from around the corner and deactivated the blue barrier separating the cell from the hall with a casual wave of their hand.

"You just going to sit on your ass, Vega?" he dimly heard a husky voice intone.

Immediately, his lethargy disappeared as he was able to focus on the person who was rescuing him.

"What the hell?" James murmured as he got to his feet and raced over to place his shoulders on his savior. "Jack?! How the…?"

James had noticed too late that the woman was in quite the state. Blood had completely marred the skin around her face from her mouth down to her chin, some of it even dripping on her clothes. Bright red against the backdrop of the black lines embedded into her flesh. It looked like she had just bitten into a live animal, raw and stringy. The strange thing was that, despite the frightfulness of her appearance, she seemed to be all right. The way she was currently acting told him that the blood did not belong to her and that he probably did not want to take a look at the scene she had left behind in her cell.

"You're staring, marine," Jack said dryly as she wiped her chin. She then spat onto the ground.

James lifted his hands away and backed up a step. "Are you… okay?" Not exactly the first thing he had wanted to say upon reuniting but it seemed like the most pertinent question at the time.

Still remaining amazingly aloof, Jack gave a shrug.

"Well, it wasn't the most ideal situation I've ever found myself in. But I've been in worse places. Come to think of it, springing us loose was easier than I expected."

"I don't want to know, do I?" James said as he gave several surreptitious glances towards both ends of the corridor, expecting the guards to return at any moment.

"Unless you have no problem losing your appetite for the rest of the day," Jack agreed.

She passed James a pistol, appropriated from the unfortunate commander she had left behind in her cell. She engaged the barriers back up for good measure, closing the rooms behind them. The woman gave a firm gesticulation towards one end of the hall, a silent instruction on where to head next.

"You take point," she patted the marine on his shoulder. They then proceeded at a quiet walk away from this place towards the stairwells. "I heard some of the men talking earlier. The ship just came out of FTL a few minutes ago. My guess is that everyone's gearing up for a battle."

"Explains why there are so little guards now," James said. "They're all at their battle stations if that's the case."

He twisted around a nearby corner, weapon in hand, and looked down the thin walkway. There was no one there—it was still safe to proceed.

"I'm assuming you have an idea of what to do next?" he asked.

Jack nodded behind him.

"Well, if I know you, Vega, then I'm sure you're not above wanting a little payback? Maybe figure that a disruption of sorts is in order to teach these poor bastards a lesson?"

After spending so long in confinement, James was up for anything right about now.

"Best idea I've heard in a while," he grinned tightly. "And I think I know what sort of disruption you have in mind…"

* * *

_Denali CIC_

The sunken square—an inverse rostrum—may have had enough room for a few people to amble about comfortably, but Admiral Huston was currently claiming all that space for himself. Surrounded by battle feeds, holographic projections, and unilateral comm traffic wavelengths, the man was brightened from all angles, making him look holographic himself.

"Input course zero, four, zero," he instructed the helmsman. "Come about to match allied line. Target CAP-V _Menhir_. Parallax range."

The _Denali_ had two helmsmen, each one sitting at stations with at least eight console screens jamming a metric ton of information all at once upon them. Seated in their all-encompassing flight chairs, their polarized visors were emotionless as their hands scrambled to and fro as they worked to bring the dreadnought into place. The rest of the Alliance battle group followed its lead, taking up positions to the ship's flanks, making a comfortable cushion between it and the rest of the other craft that comprised their makeshift fleet.

"Course aligned," a lieutenant reported. "Standing by to receive commands."

Huston pulled up a targeting feed that had the _Menhir_ aligned to the scope of one of the _Denali's_ main guns. He almost spared the ship a pitiful thought as he gazed upon it mercilessly. _How unfortunate that it had to end like this. Vakarian's a noble captain, but he lacks the conviction to address the bigger picture. Willful denial… now where have I seen that before? _He drummed his fingers against a nearby railing, already disappointed at the inevitable slaughter that was going to transpire in the next few minutes. Hardly a worthy fight for Aleph to flex his muscles. Perhaps he was merely being thorough, not wanting to chance failure. Huston could understand—it never hurt to possess a cautious mindset. Besides, after the war, arrogance was now easier to discern as a fruitless quality, the naïve hope that a peaceful status quo would organically set itself among the establishments in the galaxy. Pointless, Huston reasoned. The galaxy's natural order was to tear itself apart and all the efforts he made was to hold it all together.

Even though the _Menhir_ was most likely in the sights of every single gunship in the area, not one of them fired upon it. That order would only be given at the appropriate time and by one person only. And once that transpired, the last lingering reminder of the fabled _Normandy_ crew would be reduced to ashes and memories, their remains left to be swallowed up by the dark nebula as if they had never existed at all.

For the souls on that doomed vessel, it would be quick. For Huston, he would have to continue onwards toward an imperfect future. He wondered who had the better deal among the two.

"Filter out all non-essential communications to my channel," he instructed a nearby technician, purging his seditious thoughts before they could take root. "Until further notice, we remain in our holding pattern."

* * *

_Denali Gun Battery_

"What the fuck?!" an armored noncom blurted out as the double doors to the atrium silently parted to reveal a most unwelcome sight in front of them.

A bullet to the head soon took care of the rest of his questions. In quite the messy fashion.

"Did you _have_ to?" James sighed as he stepped over the body, glancing behind him as he rubbed at an ear, partially deafened.

Jack did not lower her appropriated pistol, which gently warped heat from the barrel. She tromped right through the growing blood pool, leaving blotchy footprints in her wake as they headed towards the final airlock section.

"I don't think you should expect me to justify playing nice after today," she growled. "In case you haven't noticed, this whole ship would not have a problem in killing us. Might as well rise to the challenge."

James made a defeated noise that sounded like "_Mmmggghh_," but did not press the issue further. Luckily, they had been in an enclosed corridor that had captured the sound of the gun blast, otherwise alarms would have been clamoring throughout every hold of the dreadnought. They were lucky that their little trek through the ship had been rather truncated and clear of encounters. They were now at the door that separated the two of them from one of the _Denali's_ main gun batteries. A whole host of turret controls for a large portion of the ship's weaponry and automated arming systems would be located here. And soldiers, too. Lots of soldiers.

Jack held her gun aloft as she gave James a sharp tap to the forearm, the two of them now pressed against the door in preparation.

"I don't want us going out there and have you suddenly go all self-righteous on me. I won't start anything, but if they draw on us, then we kill them all. Work for you?"

The marine furrowed his brow, the slight conflict enough to give him pause. He was not enthused to the idea of opening fire on Alliance soldiers, his people, but he also had to accept the fact that they would not succumb to such prejudices if they had to hone in upon him. The choice for his enemies would be simple. Why was it that his had to be hard?

Flattening his mouth, he gave a dim nod. "All right," was what he simply said.

"Good. Ready when you are?"

James made one last check to see if his pistol's thermal clip was fresh.

"Count of three. One… two… _three!_"

The door slammed open and the two of them charged forward with their weapons aloft in two-handed grips. They had suddenly been deposited onto the second story of the gun battery, which was little more than a balcony in the shape of a block number eight. From their position, they could stare directly down towards the floor below, where the main functions of the battery took place. It almost looked like an assembly line down there—multiple conveyor belts couriering large thermal sinks plodded in tandem to each turret that was connected to the ship's mainframe down there. Large cooling tubes snaked around the walls and across the floor, pumping liquid coolant into the components most affected by thermal energy. The entire layout of the place was rather ramshackle and skirting the edges of comfort.

What had to be the cherry on top of the entire presentation was the fact that around ten Alliance soldiers had all whirled in their direction at the source of the sudden intrusion. All armored and toting rather powerful rifles.

That did not stop James from trying out what little bravado he had left in his system.

"_Everyone down!_ Put your hands on your head and I can assure you that you will not be—"

Everyone's assault rifles, whether they were in the hands of a tech or a soldier, all lifted in unison. Clearly James did not have such command of the silver tongue as he would have hoped.

"Ah, damn it all to hell," he groaned.

Without waiting for permission, he heard a bang as Jack unleased a singular shot next to him. Down below, a soldier gagged as the bullet caught him in the throat, having penetrated his shields. A red spray burst from between his grasping fingers and he fell with a gurgle.

The soldier's cohorts did not rush to his aid right away. Instead they all proceeded to open fire, a mindless horde all responding to orders on high.

James and Jack both hurried in separate directions as the guardrails in front of them and the walls behind them suddenly exploded in sparks and light from the bullets ricocheting off of them. They sprinted their way across the rim of the battery, as if they were corralling their foes down below. The two opened fire indiscriminately, their aim based on more luck than actual skill, for they were so harried and perused in their current situation. Their shots were just as sloppy as the ones who were trying so hard to kill them, but at least they had the pick of the litter, not to mention a better vantage point—more targets meant that aiming was less of an importance for them.

A line of rifle fire cut across the walkway in front of James. He gave a shout before dropping to a knee and unleashing a punishing volley of six shots in quick succession, now driven to impart a little more accuracy. Six shots. Three kills. Two impacts for each person—one bullet for the shields, another for their heads. They had all staggered back when the first round had impacted on their chests, not noticing that their shields had been shattered from the first assault. They then all succumbed to the same limp and lifeless slump as the well-trained marine's headshots evacuated their brain pans, their nervous systems no longer firing after such extreme trauma.

Jack, on the other hand, did not limit herself solely to the brutal simplicity of a firearm. She was a whirlwind with her biotics, using them to lift people up from the ground, rendering them helpless, so that she could pick them off with her pistol from a distance. She swept her arm from side to side, causing savage waves of azure energy to surge forth from thin air, rolling across the floor to take all that were unfortunate enough to be in their paths. People and objects were flung through the air in an appalling anthology. Screams and clangs blended together in an agonizing symphony. She commanded deference from her enemies from the floor above, punctuating her superiority with the precise movement of a fist. Bones broke. Blood was spilled. Cries were silenced, all from the two-pronged assault that she, as a biotic, was innately adept at providing.

In less than half a minute, the entire deck had been cleared. Bodies slumped at their posts, which were now bloodstained. The air reeked of death and rifle smoke. The smell was almost ingrained to James, an elemental aspect of his duty that had never truly left him after all these years. He descended a small staircase and met Jack at the bottom.

"A bit noisier than I would've liked," he scowled as he stowed his pistol.

Jack imitated his movements. "Can't complain with the results. Fuckers had no idea who they were dealing with."

"No, I don't imagine they had time to fully take that into account."

They then headed over to the nearest turret terminal. James' credentials still worked, miraculously. Apparently, Huston had not thought of erasing his Alliance access codes even after all this time, which enabled him to log in, unmolested by any firewall program or phishing device.

He was in for a shock when he took a look at the data the turret was sending to the bridge.

"You were right! We _have_ dropped out of warp! Christ, this fleet's bigger than I thought. All the Council races are here. And look at that—this thing's aiming at a _Normandy_ class frigate."

Jack craned her neck over for a better look.

"It's not our _Normandy_, though. The _Menhir_, a Council ship. Menhir… what's that mean?"

"Another word for 'monument,' I think," James said. "Damn, every single ship in the area's got their guns trained on it. Whoever's on board has no chance at running this blockade."

"Its captain must have balls of steel," Jack nodded, impressed.

James was already rushing through several screens on the terminal. Using his credentials, he was able to open a subroutine to one of the weapon emplacements on the _Denali_.

"I have control of the Thanix cannon," he said. "I can lock out the firing sequence from this console. But it won't help the _Menhir_—we need to find a way to give it an opening."

Jack pointed towards a cluster of light frigates on the tac-map. "Why not open fire on the attack group here? It would throw the Alliance into disarray if their own ship fired on them."

James shook his head. "No, it'll _only_ stall the Alliance. It won't prevent any of the other groups—the salarians, turians, asari—from destroying the _Menhir_. If I could, I'd fire on the ship heading this fleet, but it's on the other side of the _Denali_, away from this particular emplacement. We would need to—"

A thought came to him and a wolfish smile quickly spread across his face. But rather than explain to Jack what he was going to do right away, he set to work at the terminal again. The marine punched in a new set of coordinates and watched the screen as the camfinder view slowly maneuvered into place, moving past columns of Alliance battleships and wisps of nebula to settle on a new landmark.

The lead turian destroyer, a few thousand miles away. The _Beltius_.

"The hell are you doing?" Jack asked.

"Fire on any human ships and the Alliance will be the only group to react. But if we fire on the turians, make it look like we're betraying them…"

A light then brimmed to life behind Jack's eyes. "…and this fleet turns into a total shitshow in seconds. They won't know _who_ to trust. That's… inspired. Think it'll work?"

"If it doesn't, we're going to look like idiots, aren't we?"

"Wouldn't be much of a difference from how we started the day, honestly," Jack shrugged. "So, what are you waiting for?"

Initiating the firing sequence was not as spectacular as pulling the trigger on a weapon—all it took was a few keystrokes—but it was hard to say that the results were nothing if not spectacular. The cannon grew in brightness, a boiling blue energy quickly furrowing through the barrel, and gave an extravagant roar throughout the ship as it unleashed a liquid alloy, the Thanix blast, in a punishing electromagnetic field. The alloy, comprised of a mixture of iron, uranium, and tungsten, raced across space and solidified during its trajectory. For several seconds, a blue line had been cut across the vastness of the dark nebula, separating the expanse of the fleet by its singular slice, a vibrant streak pushing forward.

James' target, the _Beltius_, had been accelerating forward this whole time and he had forgotten to account for that fact when he had aimed the turret at the destroyer. No matter, for the Thanix round quickly smashed into the rightmost wing of the enormous craft, severing it in a sapphire explosion. The destroyer dipped and lurched, now drifting wide—attack cruisers and battleships had to use their afterburners to get out of the way of the stricken ship. Out of control, the destroyer banked wide, too wide. It left the safety of its escort group and aimlessly ambled towards the asari column, where a similar flagship had been loitering, unaware of the humongous object that was now hurtling towards their path.

There was no time for the asari ship to get out of the way. The turian destroyer smashed into the side of the cross-shaped behemoth, crumpling starship metal and shattering delicate alloy innards to bits before the vacuum of space ejected everything out into the void. As the electronics for their respective weapons systems went haywire, both doomed ships immediately fired an uncontrollable salvo, sending several hundred tons of superheated metal to streak out into the infinite blackness. Many of these blind rounds missed, but others struck objects in close vicinity. The ships unfortunate enough to be in the random line of fire suddenly crumpled for a split second and exploded as the shots ravaged their hulls, biting off chunks that crippled them instantly.

Detonations rippled across the battle fleet—one fiery blossom after another. Precious spheres of light and heat existing for the briefest of moments. Not one race had a ship spared from the frantic conflagrations. Radio chatter exploded in blind panic—captains were requesting orders while some were desperately trying to reach for answers.

Driven hysterical by such a devolution in circumstances, many ship captains, thinking that there were traitors in their midst, decided to take matters into their own hands. After all, one of their own had just fired upon them! One such salarian frigate, flanking an asari light cruiser, opened up with its starboard array of turrets, raking the ship open from stem to stern and destroying it in seconds. Crimson light bled from a burst drive core and the last transmission it emitted from its ruined husk was a wordless scream from its fateful captain.

In the next few moments, the space around the ships became crisscrossed with pattern beams of savage emanations. Angry auroras surged through the fleet as each ship fired on its neighbor, unleashing a total barrage in their confusion. Fighters zipped around the larger frigates, sneaking torpedo fusillades underneath failing shields. A hail of crossfire from STS guns clipped all the fixed-wing craft from their formations—many of the stricken fighters ended up careening into the hulls of their mother ships in radiant blazes of misplaced glory.

Watching the view from the terminal, Jack let out a low whistle.

"Was that the outcome you were expecting?"

Transfixed to the screen, the only sound James could muster right now was a soft chuckle of disbelief.

* * *

_Menhir CIC_

"_Holy_…" Sam McLeod, decked out once more in combat armor, walked in just in time to catch the extravagant display of the enemy fleet destroying itself on the holographic map. "What the hell is going on over there?"

"I've no idea," Garrus said, mind frustratingly blank. "They just… I mean, look at it! They're killing each other out there and we haven't fired a single shot!"

"We didn't do that?"

"No!"

The collection of exploding starships on the simulation was eerily mesmerizing. They coruscated light, shed metal, ejected bodies in a silent dance. But all of the aggression, for some reason, had been contained to that side only and no one on board could explain why.

They were momentarily interrupted by the presence of Sagan, who was now marching down the hallway from the cockpit down to the CIC. He approached Garrus where he was standing at the helm.

"Platform runtimes have been copied to onboard servers," he reported. "Piloting no longer requires my hardware to function."

Garrus absentmindedly nodded as he raised a hand. "That's great, Sagan. But I think we have other issues right now. That fleet is eventually going to come to its senses and stop shooting one another. We still don't have the edge in terms of numbers, nor could we possibly hope to mount an offense before we get shot down."

The geth tilted his head in a plaintive display. Roahn, watching the dialogue, unintentionally mimicked the movement, never failing to be amazed by the synthetic's adoption of such organic tics.

"Respectfully," the geth intoned, "your strategy will require some adjustment within the next minute."

The turian performed a double-take, confusion cropping up in his eyes.

"_Adjustment?_ Why would I need-?"

Silently, Sagan lifted a hand, fingers "pinching" a tabbed holo-slate showing the ship's communications band. There was a comic enjoyment on Roahn's end with having the geth resort to actions rather than direct words to convey his meaning. A green wavelength on the field jumped up and down anxiously in real time. A voice soon emitted from a virtual speaker to accompany the image.

"_Menhir, this is Defender Group 2, responding to your hail."_

All eyes were on the holo-map once more as the ship began to register more and more contacts that were leaping out from warp into real-space. But the growing cloud of shimmering icons did not congregate further around the enemy's battle group to replace the ships they had lost. Rather, they seemed to be springing up _around_ the _Menhir_, gathering in a large and protective throng that bolstered the rearward flank. Roahn whirled, as though she could peer right through the walls of the ship and see the frigates that were coming alongside them.

Turning back to the map, she could hardly believe her eyes. There were now hundreds of contacts all broadcasting allied tags on their side of the nebula. Dreadnoughts, destroyers, frigates, and cruisers! The list of ships seemed endless, and the affiliations came as a surprise, too. Council Defenders, human Alliance, asari Republics, salarian Union, and turian Hierarchy ships had all joined the fray on their end! These were the true fleets, the actual leaders and believers within each military! Patriots who risked the wrath of their superiors to bring their support to the one last ship willing to uphold the tenets that Commander Shepard had decreed for the galaxy several decades prior.

"I don't believe it," Roahn said as she stepped up to the CIC platform, mask awash with the delicate sparkling of ship icons like a turbulent river. "They really _did_ hear your call."

"Aleph's reach _wasn't_ infinite after all," Garrus murmured as he too seemed awed. "There are so many…"

"And they'll all follow your lead," Roahn reassured him as she stepped down from the platform, her curiosity no longer getting the better of her. The convocation before her was enough for there to produce a singing sensation that warped throughout her entire body. Despite herself, she smiled. "Well, captain? What are your orders?"

Garrus looked back to the map, silently presiding over the ever-growing assembly that was being presented to him. So many ships, so many lives. They had all entrusted him to see this through, had actually believed in the words he had uttered for them to peer past the murky gloss that had coated everyone's sight for so long, to risk hell and damnation to be with him right now. Because they all, deep down, still held the intrinsic belief that the future belonged to them. That no one had the right to take such a thing from them. It had been what they had followed Shepard into battle for.

It was why they rallied behind Garrus now.

"Sagan…" his voice was a whisper.

"Captain?" the geth responded, alert and attentive.

The turian tilted his head over and narrowed his eyes in a slight grin.

"Take us in. Full speed ahead."

* * *

_Denali CIC_

"God-fucking-dammit!" Huston raged to his subordinates. "Who ordered that fucking Thanix strike? Who?! I want them… son of a bitch—all ships, _cease fire!_ Cease fire, goddammit! Open a channel to the battle group—have them stop firing before we're all killed!"

Huston had nearly torn the tactical headset from his eyes in a rage. He whirled about the room, glancing at all the astonished faces staring in his direction. For good reason—they had never seen him lose his temper so badly before. Then again, it was not like they had not suddenly been thrust into a circumstance when every single ship in an allied battle group was firing on one another indiscriminately.

And now they were getting multiple reports of enemy contacts that were joining the _Menhir_. Multiple! Traitorous factions within the Alliance throwing their support behind Vakarian! They would all face the consequences sooner or later.

But first...

"Sir!" a lieutenant sprang forth. "Sec Teams are reporting that there has been a disturbance in the main battery."

"I fucking got that!" Huston spat as he looked upwards towards the poor woman—who had the expression of a mouse bidden to bell the cat. "_Obviously_ there's been a disturbance, otherwise we wouldn't have opened fire in the first place!" To another technician, Huston barked, "Get all captains on my feed and broadcast my transmission on the wide band so other ships can pick it up! They do not fire, under any circumstances!"

The lieutenant, her face a pale mask, tried again. "Sir, we've gotten reports that the personnel in charge of the Thanix weaponry have… well, they've been _killed_, sir."

Huston whirled to bodily face her. "And you didn't think to tell me that straight out?!"

"Well, sir… you explicitly said to route all non-essential—"

The admiral looked at the woman like she was the dumbest being that had ever been graced with his presence. "You're useless to me. Get out of my sight." Once she had left, Huston swiftly pointed a finger to another lieutenant, who stiffened under the savage gaze of his commander. "Get me the feeds for the main battery."

The lieutenant quickly brought him a datapad. Eager to appease his commanding officer, it seemed. Huston detested bootlickers but it seemed that such responsiveness was a trait that was to be commended right about now.

The screen showed an angular view of the battery. The first thing that Huston noted were the slumped bodies of the technicians and the soldiers assigned to the area all dispersed around the floor. Bodies broken, blood still leaking from bullet holes. This was no accident—they had intruders on this ship.

Tapping at a key on the datapad allowed Huston to see other angles of the bay. He had to scroll through several camera feeds until he finally got to one with a little bit of motion on it. Two people, near the lower exit, were busy inserting themselves into sealed combat armor. They had not been donning Alliance colors initially—these were not part of the regular corps. But the admiral did not need to zoom in to get a firm view on the people he was looking at. Their body profiles were ubiquitous enough for him to know exactly who was responsible for this.

Blood boiling, Huston abruptly hurled the datapad to the side like a discus as he lunged for the exit to the CIC. His hands groped for the keypad to the security locker before leaving—from within he grabbed a modified Avenger rifle. A yeoman was barking for an escort to accompany the admiral, but Huston was already charging through the halls of the _Denali_ at this point, absolutely murderous thoughts coursing through every pathway in his brain.

* * *

_Denali Gun Battery_

"Hurry up!" James urged as he secured the final seal from the rubber lining on his neck to his helmet. "We're going to be having company real soon!"

"I'm trying!" Jack snapped, who was bouncing on one foot as she tried to slip into the form-fitting armor, which might have been a size too large as it kept knocking about her frame uncomfortably. "I'm not as experienced as you with this sort of thing!"

The marine desperately wanted to make a quip that this was the probably the first time in years in which the biotic had been completely covered with some type of clothing. The woman was not necessarily an exhibitionist but that she simply held little value for most garments purely out of disinterest.

"Here, let me-!" James grunted as he rushed over to help.

He had to take a moment mouth a silent curse. Jack really was hopeless at dressing herself in armor—all of the clasps had somehow been screwed up on the chestplate. The shoulders were askew and the interior lining was asymmetrical and folded in some areas. If this had been boot camp she would have been made to do a hundred push-ups by the DIs until she had gotten this right. Somehow, he did not think that this trial by fire was going to do her many favors in terms of ironing the necessary motions in.

"Holy shit, what have you _done_ to this?" he asked rhetorically as he frantically tried to undo the mistakes Jack made. He was not gentle as he jerked the woman this way and that, ignoring her snarls as he got her suited up good and proper. "All good?" he asked when he was finished.

"I look fucking ridiculous!" Jack growled as she tested her range of motion in the bulky armor. With the helmet on, James could only see the woman's eyes but that was enough to tell that she was surely not happy right now.

"Escape pods are a hundred meters back towards the center of the ship," he said. "Figure they're going to be sending everything they have at us to prevent us from getting out of here. Now, once we reach—"

Angry rifle blasts abruptly exploded in James' ears, staggering him as masses of sparks raced up and down upon all sides. Flakes of metal grating were sheared away in sharp flechettes, bouncing off of the armor that James and Jack had so wisely chosen to don. Shooters! But from where?!

James tried to get his own weapon up, but a well-placed bullet raced right through it, shearing it in half and wrenching his wrist painfully! He instinctively let go of the grip—the remains of the useless weapon dropped noisily to the floor.

Jack too was looking rather lost in the face of the unexpected barrage, her large helmet preventing her from seeing properly. Tracer beams raced around her head, some furiously fizzing as they grazed the edges of her kinetic barriers. James had mere seconds to make a decision lest they all got killed, so he bodily raced over and grabbed the biotic around the midsection. He ignored her curses at his manhandling her, but he had no choice. He dived to the ground, taking his friend with him, behind the safety of a large pillar where the shooters could not reach them.

"Give me your pistol," he said to Jack as they both picked themselves up.

She wordlessly complied but right away, James saw that there was a problem. In the chaos of the moment, apparently the pistol had been subjected to a catastrophic feeding failure—the loading spring for the heat sink ejection system had completely malfunctioned and was now allowing the open port to loosely slide in and out.

"Well, shit," James sighed as he cast that gun away too.

"It's not too bad," Jack said as she joined James with their backs pressed against the wall, side-by-side. "There can't be that many out there? Figure three? We can probably take at least five."

The answer to Jack's question came in the form of several firearms opening up on the pillar they stood behind. The matte surface was quickly impacted with bullet holes, riddling it worse than a block of Swiss cheese. The noise was almost deafening, even with the helmets on, and far more sustained and numerous than just a ragtag squad of shooters. James peeked his head out to take a look and had to jerk back as a high-powered burst shredded part of the sharpened corner away.

"No…" James murmured, "I figure they brought the whole damned ship."

Loud red emergency lights were spinning up and down the walls. Blaring klaxons were noisily reverberating throughout the dreadnought, while an unmistakable rumbling could be discerned through the floor. Ejected nitrogen gas hissed in white streams from punctured piping, filling the air with a light fog.

James looked around the corner again—what he saw was not good. At least twenty soldiers, all on the second story balcony, pointing a variety of weapons in their direction. Not only did they have the high ground, they had the firepower to bolster their confidence. Sure, Jack had her biotics, but they were at too far of a distance for her to be truly effective.

"Captain Vega!" a voice called over the cacophony. "I don't suppose the futility of your situation is starting to settle in?"

The marine tilted his head in astonishment as he looked to Jack. "Oh, fuck. _Huston's_ leading the pack."

"He's not going to take any chances this time," Jack surmised.

Through the gradually growing cloud of nitrogen, Huston kept his rifle trained on their position as he spoke from above.

"We've got all the time in the world over here, Vega!" Huston roared. "Though I must commend you for utilizing your few moments of freedom to give me one last headache. I will not give you any terms, any chances to surrender. You used your opportunity merely to kill more of your allies—more humans! You think any court will settle for less than the death penalty? It ends here. No quarter. No deals. Might as well face your punishment with some dignity."

James frantically scanned the area he was in until his eyes found a small door to the left of his position. It was round and latched tightly—an airlock. That route only led out, and to get there would require dashing out into the open for a scant few seconds. Enough time for the soldiers to blow him to pieces with their rifles.

But he had a plan. He nudged Jack and told her what to do while he surreptitiously opened a program on his omni-tool to connect to the door's mainframe over the _Denali's_ network.

"Don't make me come down there and get you, Captain!"

James had finally had enough of Huston's posturing. Cable bundles above his head jerked and rattled while the constant gushing of gas became a loud clamor.

"A real commander would not bluster and stall like you, Admiral!" he shouted back. "You think guilting me for what I've done is going to work? Everyone on this ship knew what they signed up for—they're all traitors like you! All willing to destroy what Shepard built for us—built for _you!_"

A smatter of loud gunshots raked the side of the column—bright yellow streaks of clashing metal flickered for only nanoseconds. More electric sparks spurted from tears in damaged wiring, frothing to the floor like a thick liquid. Clearly James had touched a nerve.

"Your sickening devotion to that man is getting old, Vega!" Huston barked. "Shepard this! Shepard that! Do you realize how annoying it has been to have you under my command—Shepard had you under his for less than a year and still you won't hesitate to let anyone within earshot know about it!"

"For good reason!" James shouted as he took quick glances down at the working program on his omni-tool while an uncomfortable rumbling about the bay threatened to rattle him to pieces. "He's ten times the man you are! Hell, forget that! He's _incomparable_ to whatever excuse for a leader you are! You're nothing but a cancer! I was fucking _embarrassed_ to be put under your unmotivated ass!"

More and more gunfire created a rattling din. Ricocheting shots bounced into flammable tanks, which now streamed flat geysers of fire. Purple electric bolts sizzled from sheared wires, crackling from dangling tubes.

"Unmotivated?! I have made preparations that will _protect_ the human race for centuries to come. I took up the responsibility that Shepard, in his wisdom, had abdicated when he exiled himself to Rannoch with that quarian! He did not keep his word, Vega! He did not follow through on restoring the natural balance to the galaxy after we conquered the Reapers. Instead, he left! He could not face the consequences of his own actions and abandoned us all just so he could lie with that slu—"

"_Now!_" James hissed to Jack as his omni-tool uttered a sharp ping—the airlock door opened!

Jack reached out, arm glowing blue with biotic energy, and thrust a hand forward, sending out a sharp spear of dark power to sear across the battery. It impacted dead center into the main steam line—superheated gas now billowed forth from a wide puncture in the piping in a blistering wave, completely fogging the ground floor and turning the walls slippery with humidity.

Random shots from the upper floor spiked forth, punching their way through the churning cloud. Huston was shouting out, trying to corral his troops. While that was going on, James and Jack booked it from behind the pillar, using the steam mist as cover, and dived through the open airlock door before quickly shutting it behind them. The interior of the chamber was small and cylindrical. The two had to lie on their fronts in order to maneuver here.

"Hang onto me," he instructed Jack as he used notched clingwire to latch their belts together. Jack's arms uncontrollably wrapped around his lower body—a fearful tremor ran through her. She was scared. So was James, but he hid his own worries better.

"Hope someone out there is listening," she murmured.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "Someone is."

There was a winking red button right next to his head. James planted a hand upon it. A quick countdown then began to display in silent block numbers. Muffled yells from behind the closed airlock door were now beginning to resonate—Huston and his cronies coming to pry them out.

But it was too late. The countdown reached zero and the exterior airlock doors opened.

Pulled by the vacuum, James and Jack shot from the tubular area like a bullet from a gun.

* * *

The view from James' visor was full of stars. Or exploding ships. It was hard to tell. What was immediately apparent at just how eerie hurtling through empty space was. Completely soundless, only the noise of his own breathing in his ears. The strobing of turret fire, the expansion of detonating craft, the contrails from passing ships, all were carried out in a supreme and absolute silence.

It was just Jack and him now, all by their lonesome with no protective ship, no coddling atmosphere, to provide a modicum of safety.

He was never fully ready for the gut-dropping sensation that came with being weightless. During N7 training, he performed about a dozen separate simulations with him doing vacuum incursions on enemy ships, though that was a controlled environment where his speed was limited in order to prevent grievous injury. There were no such safeguards right now—drifting in space at this speed, in the middle of a full-on battle, with a friend literally attached to the hip was not a combination that he had ever fully considered he might have to withstand.

Guess it was not just Jack who was having a trial by fire today.

The _Denali_ dropped away beneath him, parts of its sectioned hull ragged from friendly fire. A warzone was the backdrop that awaited him in front, with a maze of ruined hulks, colorful plumes of plasma, and spiraling wisps of cosmic dust awaiting to embrace him in their deadly collage.

Fighters zipped by, dangerously close, loosing their payloads at combat speeds. Any closer and he would have been roasted by the backdraft of their engines. Frigates darted in on striking runs in the distance, their side emplacements razing the unprotected bellies of larger craft. Destroyers lazily pushed on by overhead, their large profiles blotting out the miniature suns that were their doomed brethren. A whirling hurricane of metal, whether in the form of ships or alloy payloads, all zipped their way around the spacebound humans, a tornado of shrapnel and fire creating a magnificent field of debris in the throes of the gentle nebula.

No one seemed to pay any heed to the two individuals hurtling their way through the combat area in just their suits. They were either too small and easily mistaken for debris, or discounted as ejected corpses like the other unfortunate souls ripped from their atmospheric havens. James kept his eyes straight ahead—there was no way for him to maneuver so he had to count on blind luck offering him an assist right about now. Jack clung tightly against him, helmeted head pressed into his chest, eyes closed so that she would not have to look.

James just prayed that his activated beacon was working. It had reported a good connection before he had spaced the two of them—there was something for him to be optimistic about.

And… yes! Right there, past a stricken asari frigate! That sleek but muscular profile—so very familiar—was headed right for them on an intercept course!

The _Menhir_. What a sight. They could see his beacon after all. He tried to let out a breath of relief but found out that he had already exhaled everything in his stressful panic. He remembered to take a gulp of what little stale air he had in reserve.

James squinted and clutched Jack tighter to him. The ship was getting awful close, yet it was doing everything in its power to match his incoming velocity. That bird had a real sharp pilot at the helm to be pulling off such maneuvers in such a contested environment. Even now, he could see that they were heading straight for the airlock door near the front of the ship—the outer door was already open, ready to admit them!

The marine tried to cover Jack as protectively as he could. A proximity alarm in his suit was now alerting him that he was approaching a large object—the ship—at a rapid velocity. Now was when he closed his eyes. If all went to plan, then they should be okay. If not, then this was going to be quite the painful impact.

One thousand meters. Seven hundred meters. Three hundred. One hundred.

Impact.

* * *

_Menhir Airlock_

He opened his eyes again, expecting a fresh wave of pain to overtake him at any second, to wrack his body in agonizing spasms as jolts from damaged nerves jittered his shattered bones.

And pain _did_ arise… but at a much lower threshold than he had anticipated. The horrific imaginings of his afflictions never showed up—instead a few smart throbbings that would normally accompany bumps and bruises were bold enough to show their faces. No dire injuries. Nothing had been broken.

Groggily, James sat up, though with some difficulty as Jack was lying atop his chest, arms still wrapped around him like there was a chance that she would be ripped away if her grip slackened. The armored marine gave the woman's gauntlet a few gentle taps, letting the dull sound linger in the enclosed space.

"Hey," he whispered. "_Hey_. You can open your eyes now."

A low groan mustered from Jack as she timidly raised her head, finding the previous eye-watering sight of the massive fleet battle had now been replaced with the most mundane of locations: an airlock. Slowly, her fingers released their hold on James' armor, though her body was still succumbing to a few errant shakes.

"Ugh," she moaned as she crawled off of James so that she could muster herself into a sitting position. Looking to see that the icon lights were reading a breathable atmosphere in the room, she then reached up and yanked the helmet off of her head and emitted a grateful gasp once freed of the damned thing, fingers already proceeding to straighten out her crumpled hair. "Let's not do that ever again, marine."

James too removed his helmet, performing a grimace as he tossed it to the side. "It's not like I enjoyed that either, you know."

"Maybe I shouldn't complain too much," Jack said as she now set to unclasping the armor seals from her shoulders, desperate to shed it like a second skin. She lidded a low look upon the man. "You did get us here. And what a leap of faith it was, too."

The now-disgraced marine unassumingly broke eye contact for a moment, unsure if that soft gleam in Jack's eyes that transfixed him held a separate interpretation apart from her words. He castigated himself for even thinking about such things at this moment.

"Told you someone was listening," James warded the notion off. "Hell of a pilot to get us on board without incident, though. Never did figure out who was captaining—"

The doors to the interior of the ship quickly slid open, cutting off James mid-sentence. However, he was about to get another of the biggest shocks he would ever receive in the past week once the person beyond the threshold stepped in. Absurdly, James figured that he was at least due for a period of calmness after all this calamity and confusion.

"_James?!_" Garrus uttered, slack-jawed as he stood in the doorway.

"_Garrus?!_" James' mouth was similarly ajar.

"_Jack?!_" Liara unexpectedly leaned out from behind the turian.

"_Liara?!_" Jack blurted out.

James stood up to embrace his friends in a gigantic bear hug, his previous exhaustion all but a memory. Garrus gave a gag as the muscular human's arms threatened to snap him like a twig. Liara was spared such brutality—James made sure to be more gentle with her than he had been with the turian.

"Tell me this isn't a hallucination," James said as an uncontrollable grin spread across his face. "Are you guys really here right now?"

"I'm seeing the same thing you are, so you're not going crazy," Jack said sardonically after applying a gentle punch in greeting to Garrus' ribcage.

"We made this detour because we had picked up a friendly beacon running on an older code in the middle of this mess," Garrus explained. "Now it all makes sense. Of all the dumb luck, huh, Vega? What the hell were the two of you doing floating out around here?"

James and Jack shared a glance. "Long story," James said sheepishly, "and now's probably not the best time to go into details, considering we are in a warzone. I guess I could expect the same explanation from you?"

"About it being a long story?" Garrus nodded, now backing away while beckoning with a finger for the others to follow. "That's putting it _mildly_."

With the turian leading, James was thrust into a pronounced feeling of déjà vu as he walked through the neck of the _Menhir_, very much aware that he was now embarking deeper into a replica of the very ship that had brought victory to the entire galaxy all those years ago. Everything looked the same, with maybe a slightly fresher coat of paint about it.

"I've certainly been out of the loop," he stated flatly. "And now you're the captain of all this? Damn. How come I didn't know of this? Is it just you and Liara that are the old faces around here?"

"Not necessarily," Garrus turned around as he neared the CIC. "Grunt's with us too. And you might remember the doctor from Earth, Sam? He's here as well." The turian gave a distinct pause before continuing. "And Shepard. He was around as an advisor of sorts to our team."

Pulse escalating, James felt himself perk up.

"Shepard? He's here? Where is he?"

Now it was Garrus' turn to become morose.

"That's the thing, James. It's… partly why we're here. Shepard is being held aboard a ship in this fleet. The person holding him has also got some kind of device they're planning on using to kill a lot of people. We're going to be heading on an intercept course for it shortly."

The seasoned captain then placed a hand on one of the marine's muscular shoulders in a show of comfort.

"We've got all hands on deck for this one, James. But we'll have you and Jack get set up in the med bay, check the both of you out for injuries—"

"Fuck that," James interrupted as he pushed Garrus' hand away, willing away his former afflictions so that he could dredge up all of his energy for this moment. "If you think I'm just going to sit on my ass when Shepard could use my help, you're dead wrong, Vakarian. I'm fit to fight and I've already got my armor on. Give me a weapon, let me come with you!"

"And don't think that you're going to get rid of me that easily!" Jack jested as she walked up to James' side. She then fixated the turian with a levelled stare. "I'm not staying either. We come as a packaged deal."

It was apparent to Garrus that he was not going to win this argument, if he could even call it that. The looks the two humans were giving him were enough to make any weak-willed person flee outright. A part of him wished he could order them to remain, as their bloodied and bruised appearances did not give the impression that they had been treated particularly well for at least a week, maybe two. But all of him knew that they would shrug off terrible wounds out of sheer loyalty to their friends—there were some things that meant more to people, things that went beyond personal safety. In good conscience, Garrus could not deny them that wish.

"Fit to fight, you say?" he sighed.

Both of them promptly nodded.

Garrus jerked a thumb towards the elevator. "Armory's in its usual spot. A few canisters of medi-gel are there too—take some when you're able. Pack into the Kodiak in five minutes. You don't show, we leave without you."

"Thank you, Garrus," James effused, but the turian was not done.

"I won't be the only one giving orders around here, just so you know. I've got an XO—someone that might be familiar to you. I'd expect you to follow them to hell and back, if need be."

James was about to comment on this surprise revelation, but the turian quickly moved aside to reveal a slim looking figure standing just behind him. For a moment, the man gave a panicked jolt at the sight of the familiar purple _sehni_ wrapped around the quarian's helmet but his shock quickly morphed into a genuine astonishment as he finally understood.

"It… _can't_ be," he murmured thoughtfully. "No, not… Roahn? _Roahn?_ You were… you were so _little_ the last time I saw you! My god, how long has it been?"

"Too long, I'd wager," Roahn said, mask hiding a tender smile as she approached to take both James' and Jack's hands in turn. More legends to add to her roster. "I certainly never thought I'd see you guys again like this."

"Garrus' XO, huh?" Jack chuckled. "Taking up the family business, then. Right in the old man's wheelhouse." She then gave a mock frown as she flattened her hand into a level. "Huh. You're taller than me now. Shit."

Roahn watched Jack with a ruthless interest, arching an eyebrow impishly.

Truthfully, she wondered how she could have gotten so lucky. Sometimes the nature of the galaxy had a tendency to bestow some good fortune on her every once in a while. Who could imagine it? Roahn, the leader of a company of old soldiers. Heroes. Most of them established into the annals of history. Was this the product of her upbringing or her abilities? Perhaps she would never know, there were only two people in this universe that would ever give her an unfiltered and completely honest answer. One was gone. The other, taken.

If only Roahn could glance over and behold her mother, waiting in the wings. What would they say to each other? Would it be comforting words of affirmation, a moment to assure themselves of the righteousness of their cause? Because that was what Tali had done with her father all those years ago, right? She had been the rock that tethered Shepard to something real, something he could hold and touch. Something to give his mission purpose, so that he would not fight for an abstract idea but for a person who would wait through the heat death of the universe, if need be, just to be with him.

But Roahn had none of that substance, nothing palpable that gave her own mission its relevance. She was still chasing a concept, lacking a corporealness that could all vanish before she could grasp it in her hands. It was a constant chase for the quarian, an insurmountable goal that always floated on ahead, out of reach.

_Mom… mom. Tali. When does this end? When will it ever end?_

* * *

The nature of a synthetic consciousness was a motif that organics naturally thought they had a strong understanding of. It was simple to blissfully assume that the parallels between synaptic processes ran congruent in the inherent design, confident that knowledge had only one way of being imparted.

But the truth was, awareness was a vastly different concept in a synthetic than an organic could fathom. It was a subject, though simply explained, was difficult to infer in its totality.

Sagan, being synthetic, had qualities that could have been interpreted as enigma amongst similarly created brethren. He was a geth, initially designed to provide assistance in manual labor that had only been bestowed with a greater intelligence through what could be considered a freak accident. There were several AI in the galaxy that had been specifically designed to ponder the deep questions that philosophy could not scratch and science could not decode within the flesh brains of their creators—that was not a fate that had been meant for the geth, yet it had transpired all the same. A reward that eventually had become their damnation. The cycle of destruction reigned upon their existence—they had always been doomed to such a fate.

But Sagan's consciousness, unlike organics', existed in somewhat of a half-state. He was aware of himself, of others, but displayed no tendencies at discovering the meaning behind their existences. The questions held no exponential significance and neither would the answers. He was a being of pure absorption, always in a state of intense scrutiny. He viewed the galaxy like a child, observing the minutia of details as they were presented to him. Subterfuge and clever ploys could not be directly manifested within him, though he was capable of transcribing methodologies that obliged his participation.

As a geth, Sagan could exist in multiple states, observe from several different viewpoints without disorientation. In one such viewpoint, he could see the interior of the Kodiak shuttle, where his physical body was located. Others were there in the shuttle with him: Vakarian, his captain—McLeod, the doctor—the new arrivals, Vega and Jack [LAST_NAME REDACTED]—and his Creator, Roahn. If there was a comparable emotion to an almost reverent adherence to the quarian, it was most likely that inclination that Sagan felt impart upon him every time he recognized Roahn's appearance within a certain proximity.

Another viewpoint resided with the _Menhir_ itself. _Within_ the _Menhir_ would be a better way of describing it. This was where the lines of organic understanding began to blur, for it is impossible for one born of flesh and blood to comprehend the sensation of existing in two locations synchronously. Yet, being a geth, Sagan had such an ability to copy specific runtimes within his hardware—his mobile platform—and transfer them over to the ship's data core. A small part of himself would take over the processes that the ship's computer would normally be capable of—to become the intelligence of the _Menhir_, in a sense.

For the duration of the battle, the _Menhir_ and Sagan were one.

The new array of information that was suddenly thrust upon the geth would be overwhelming enough to drive any organic mad. Sagan simply absorbed it all without as much as a hitch in his processing time, comfortable with taking the data strain. To him, it felt like his local influence had suddenly enlarged to encompass the entire craft. His presence expanded within the vessel, monitoring every system, holding every weapon. This would be necessary if he was to keep the crew alive.

Ship and geth, linked in thought, acted without delay.

Calmly, Sagan pushed the engines of the _Menhir_ to accelerate through the growing belt of detritus. Torn pieces from capital ship hulks rippled throughout the nebula, crowding the area of operations and making flying tricky. Though "trick" was an irrelevant term for Sagan. Making tiny adjustments to the trajectory of the ship to avoid incoming scrap as big as a skyscraper was as simple as flicking a finger.

Friendly forces rippled eagerly in the ship's wake, desperate to join the fray. Warlike howls from the last true fleet, the protectors of the galaxy, lit up on every channel. They had all come here to embark on this last defense, a final act to save the galaxy from ruination once more. Motivated by the mere words that Garrus had sent out to all corners of the starry arms of the Milky Way. Burst fire streamed through empty space, rattling the weakened enemy fleet, already in disarray from firing on one another. The rogue battle groups began to rally, having finally coordinated with one another on who their attackers truly were, but it might have been too late for such action.

The space around the nebula exploded with ladar pulses. The forces on both sides had seen fit to drop buoys and probes, emitting every single wavelength they had in their arsenal. That was messing with the _Menhir's_ stealth profile—it could now be easily targeted by passing ships. But this was an annoyance right now, not a danger.

Sagan sent the ship into a spiraling dive, deploying laser chaff to disorient the tracking probes around them. The six engines glowed a blistering blue as they surged the craft through the dark waves of Lupus 4.

The maneuver had picked up some unwanted attention, regardless. Two salarian missile frigates had broken away from the fray to chase after the _Menhir_. At this moment, Sagan could detect locking systems trying to hone in on what little heat emissions they were putting out. The old _Normandy_ would not have been equipped for such an engagement, but the _Menhir_ had been designed from the ground up to be a gunboat. This was what its true purpose had been intended for all along.

The _Menhir_ had a respectable payload of JLM-4 "_fire-and-forg_et" torpedoes. Add to its capability to track enemies astern and it had a complete firing field available at its disposal. Sagan conservatively fired two torpedoes, one for each frigate. Both bogeys immediately darted away in opposite directions, surprised at being targeted at such a seemingly bad angle. They deployed chaff and laser chatter to ward off the attack, but the nebula was erratically screwing up the scanners.

The torpedoes did not make so much as a wobble as they seared through the clouds and touched both ships. Two flashes joined the light show in the nebula. Both contacts dropped off sensors.

Sagan did not so much as take a pause in a single runtime to celebrate this small victory. He circled back to the defensive screen to allow a quick repair to an overcharged diffusion subsystem. Once completed, he spun the _Menhir_ back around and inserted it into the battle once again.

Additional fighters, Alliance Tridents, now joined the skirmish like a swarm of angry locusts. These were faster than the frigates and caught up to the _Menhir_ quickly, their lighter mass a benefit for their less powerful engines. Scattered cannon fire ripped across the _Menhir's_ kinetic barriers, shaking the ship heavily but performing no significant damage.

Back in his actual platform within the awaiting shuttle, Sagan could hear nervous rumblings from the rest of his crewmembers. They were getting worried. His natural instinct, being their pilot, was to be protective of them. His job entailed getting everyone to their destination safely.

Damned if he was not going to give it his best shot.

The fighters were maneuvering too fast for the ship to get a torpedo lock. They were also too far away for the point defense cannons to be of any use. The interceptors did not have that problem and opened up on the _Menhir_ with wanton abandon. Most of their shots missed, but a lucky line of depleted uranium slugs slammed into the starboard engines, dropping the shields to 15% effectiveness there. The ship gave a painful lurch, the impact nearly breaking through the acceleration dampeners. Sagan was able to recover the trajectory and instructed the generators to begin diverting power from the port barriers to make up the shields that were lost on the opposite side.

The radar displays were now using the scattered buoys to Sagan's advantage—he was now able to siphon a clear map of the area of operations from the enemy's battlenet. A few torpedoes were loosed towards the _Menhir_, but the geth was able to utilize his cyberwarfare suite to tangle with the weapons' electronics. The torpedoes spiraled away, swallowed up by the curls of the cosmic cloud.

Realizing that he had used up enough time already, Sagan then compared his current position to that of the _Morningtide's_. In two seconds, he had a proper course plotted, one that took him through the heart of the fighting, but would mean that the strike team would get offloaded as quickly as possible.

He still needed to take care of those Tridents, though.

The _Menhir_ suddenly banked left, deep into inky well of interstellar dust. The foggy supernova remnants were so thick that even the glow of the engines was obscured mere moments after entering it. The Tridents did not even hesitate in pursuing their target through the globules. They gave little heed towards the thought of pounding past all the proplyds, through the vastness of the solar clouds and pulsar winds. All that mattered to them was to turn the _Menhir_ into a remnant of its own, one of vaporized metal and carbon remains.

Their afterburners were red flares as the squadron raced through the cloud. It had been ten seconds already and they still had not exited—it was that thick. Radar was pinging their quarry still right in their sights, though. Once they were clear of the nebula and their instrumentation returned to normal, they would open fire. Each pilot was so confident of their victory that they paid no heed to their suicidal speeds, only concerned with claiming the kill for themselves.

They were so concentrated with their singular objective that they failed to realize what was awaiting them behind the arm of the nebula until it was too late.

Black tufts parted dramatically like a sheared tapestry to reveal the enormous profile of a turian battleship just on the other side—only a hundred miles away from where the Tridents had exited! Too close to pull up in any direction! Screams uselessly echoed over the comms—from both ships—before each of the Tridents smashed into the angular hull of the massive ship, breaching right through it. Fire and atmosphere poured from the holes in the battleship, its life support systems irreparably damaged, now starting to list heavily to the side.

From above, the _Menhir_ blotted out the glow from a nearby sun, silhouetting it against the glorious explosions of color down below. It dove back down, Thanix gun out and priming, intent on finishing the stricken warship off.

Any other pilot would have uttered a smart quip. Not Sagan.

Surrounded by blue light, the molten alloy spat through cold space before it impacted squarely underneath the elevated bridge. The force of the shot was so severe that the imparted energy spread across the neck of the ship, severing the bridge from the rest of the vessel! The heat from the Thanix round also ignited the sheared oxygen lines—catastrophic detonations now rippled through the ship. Its hull was now dotted with serene orange glows, fiery bursts that spat warped metal, ejected bodies, and ripped the underlying structure apart.

In less than a minute, the turian battleship blew itself to smithereens in an aura of blue and purple, adding itself to the ever growing ring of debris that was now littering the nebula. Unperturbed and with the way now clear, the _Menhir_ made a beeline for the one ship that had made an effort to disengage itself from the conflict, bringing it in close so that it could unleash the loaded shuttle it had waiting in its bay.

This was the moment they had all needed, Sagan realized. Perhaps this would begin to make things right.

* * *

There was only the faint rumbling from the engines that Roahn could discern through her boots once the Kodiak was free from the _Menhir_. She closed her eyes behind her mask in a slow blink, not intent on counting out the seconds lest she just make this torturous moment last longer.

Cracking them back open, she surreptitiously looked upon the faces of those around her, the men and women who had not hesitated to sign up for this mission, knowing what was at stake.

Grunt, fierce and determined, holding back his blood rage until the opportune moment.

Sam, concerned but focused, fiddling anxiously at his weapons to ensure he was going into this as prepared as possible.

James, not a trace of doubt lingering in his expression, hands on an assault rifle that he had grabbed right out of the gate.

Jack, lips mouthing foul curses, a few stray tendrils of biotic energy slithering along the path of her veins upon her neck.

Sagan, stoic and eternal, the geth's mere presence acting as a comfort and a locus of stability.

Liara, eyes sharp and breathing steady, ready to dive wholeheartedly into the abyss that awaited them.

And Garrus, her captain, her icon. The only person in this universe who could possibly be more ready than her at this moment. All those times Shepard had been in danger—being spaced by the Collectors and being trapped by an exploding Citadel—and he had never been the one to pull him free. That would end today. This was the chance that had been tormenting the turian for years on end. There was no way he was going to waste this.

_Neither will I_, Roahn promised herself as she patted the grip of her pistol for reassurance. _So close. So close._

Two seconds later, the Kodiak gave a noticeable bump. A light near the door flashed from red to green. A good seal—they had docked with the _Morningtide_.

With a quarian and a geth on their team, the network that connected to the airlock door was easily overridden and it quickly opened to admit the large crew, revealing an empty hallway with dark copper shadows that looked oily in the devilish light.

Flashlights on their weapons primed, everyone aimed down the hall with bated breath. The infiltration had begun.

Roahn swallowed her fears down as she took the first step forward.

"Well, shall we?"

* * *

**A/N: The end run approaches. The final confrontation awaits. And a mystery (or two) will be solved.**

**Hope you're just as excited for this as I am!**

**Playlist:**

**Enemy Fleet Approaches**  
**"Rectifier"**  
**Daft Punk**  
**TRON: Legacy (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Prison Block Escape/Gun Battery Takeover**  
**"Escape from Hellgate"**  
**James Horner**  
**Avatar (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Huston Squares Off/Denali Ejection (Tension Reprise)**  
**"Forced Entry"**  
**Max Richter**  
**Ad Astra (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Menhir Attacks**  
**"The Union"**  
**Martin O'Donnell**  
**Destiny: Music of the Spheres**


	32. Chapter 32: Henchmen

"_You people didn't like the mineral farming mini-game, either, so we've tapered that down in this installment as well. Now, Mass Effect 3 features the fewest mini-games in the entire trilogy, because every time we try to do something different, we cannot escape incurring criticism for these features."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Morningtide_

A boundless length of obscurity. A corridor of shadow. The interior of the _Morningtide_ possessed a repellant quality, the figurations molded to fit organics but in the most artificial design possible.

The flashlights on all their weapons did not provide enough illumination to brighten the halls that stretched infinitely before them. Lamps embedded on the floor oozed a timid luminosity, one that spilled across the polished metal floors the color of bitter chocolate and dimly reflected the walls from the mirrored surfaces. The octagonal design of the corridors, ribbed with sectioned panels, were lined with guardrails that prevented pedestrians from knocking their heads against the slanted sections of the ceiling. At times, glowing bars of orange light punched through the shadows—irregular fixtures embedded in the ceiling to throw a sinister shade upon the entire presentation.

Taking point, finger on the trigger of her assault rifle, Roahn made sure to roll her feet to quiet her footsteps while she proceeded to venture down the hall further, helmet filled with the hollow sounds of her breathing. Behind her, James, Sagan, and Sam matched her plodding pace, the two humans looking at their surroundings with unease while the geth remained calm and plaintive.

Even though their infiltration had only encroached upon a shallow percentage of the ship, Roahn was struck at just how uninviting and lifeless the chambers of the frigate were. She recalled old pictures of the geth ships her father had boarded during the war, noting that they had been curvaceous vessels with only stout hallways linking vestibules large enough to park a capital ship inside them. From what they had seen, the _Morningtide_ featured no comparable rooms in size, though the shafts here stretched on and on beyond the edges of sight, heedless to the organic need for directional navigation.

No one spoke, not even over the comms. Perhaps they feared that the tiniest betrayal of noise would alert aggressors hiding behind hidden panels in the walls, ready to rip into them with a vengeful purpose.

It was only the four of them in this part of the ship. Garrus had taken Jack, Grunt, and Liara down a separate corridor earlier on—the paths had forked almost immediately after they had left the safety of the Kodiak shuttle. The _Morningtide_ had no battlenet to splice into, which meant that no one was able to download any floor plans for the craft. One large group would have taken too much time in trying to scour the ship for Shepard or Aleph, so Garrus had made an executive decision to split up their incursion team into two squads and take separate routes, mapping the network of hallways with their omni-tools as they went along.

For at fifteen minutes, Roahn and her squad headed down the myriad passageways of the gigantic frigate, trying to keep a firm grasp of their relative position in their head. What was confounding about the _Morningtide_ was that its floorplan did not seem to follow the logic of any ship anyone had ever been on before. It seemed to be comprised purely of just hallways—they had yet to come across any doors, which meant that either whatever thresholds that did exist were hidden or that the concept of rooms was a notion that was considered ancillary on the vessel. Adding further confusion was the fact that there were no signages posted indicating where anything on this ship was, such as the engine bay, a gun battery, or anything of note. An Alliance vessel, for example, would have been required to post directional placards every dozen meters or so at the very least. Clearly whoever manned this vessel had no concerns about the crew finding their way around the ship.

If there even _was_ a crew, at least. Roahn had yet to come across a single soul in her prudent explorations through the halls. Every time they had come upon a corner, she had always made the hand gesture (a signal that was damn near impossible to spot in this darkness) for her squad to form up on the inside wall so that she could send out a tiny drone to peer around it. Without fail, it would always show another empty corridor, another clear passageway for them to traverse down with no points of interest making themselves apparent along the way.

There was a distinct thud from the rear of the pack. A quick yowl soon followed. Roahn whirled her weapon around to shine a light on Sam's face, who was currently hopping up and down while clutching at his boot. The man had apparently stubbed his toe in the darkness.

"What sort of _masochist_ designs a ship like this?!" the doctor hissed as he settled into a slight limp.

"Dim halls, minimal crew…" James murmured. "Probably relying on automated systems for the most part."

"_Yeesh_. It's like someone took out all the pages from the 'Building a Supervillain Lair' playbook. If they were trying to convince us otherwise, then…"

Roahn had nothing to add to that little conversation. She shared the same queries, though she was at the same point of understanding as everyone else. The quarian simply beckoned for everyone to follow her once more, picking back up to where they had previously left off in their seemingly hopeless search, to proceed as cells nearly wandering without aim through the veins and capillaries of the cursed vessel.

Occasionally, the group would come across a segment of a corridor where the sectioned panels on the sides were rimmed with angular and vertical orange lights, same type as the ones they had seen in the ceiling. It looked almost like someone had taken a laser scalpel to the edges of the metal, finely cutting it down to make the edges glow red-hot. They failed to brighten the surroundings any, though it seemed to impart a conscious design choice that made itself known during their travels. A sign that they were getting closer to an area of significance, perhaps?

Or maybe it was misdirection—Roahn's navigating routinely brought them to multiple dead ends within the _Morningtide_. Sam might have had a point in that the architect must have had a sick sense of humor in designing the frigate. Luckily, the quarian had been using an application that left virtual breadcrumbs from the start, dotting the trail they were making throughout the maze, otherwise she surmised that they would all be in danger of truly getting themselves lost here.

One curious aspect that Roahn did notice, upon making her way through the empty space, was that the interior of this ship was _immaculate_. No dust hung in the air, no liquid stained the floor, no crates, carts, or tools littered the pathways, and not a single panel was out of place. The walls and ceiling were remarkably barebones, not at all conducive to the eye with their exposed piping, the uncapped ventilation fans, and jutting electrical boxes that were protuberances upon the relatively flat surfaces.

Grungy, austere, and engulfed in adumbrations, the ship refused to be defined by platitudes, instead possessing the most singular of qualities that projected sensations that were perverse and threatening to the core, capable of affecting the most stalwart of warriors.

This place was _evil_.

The thickening sensation that was being applied to her heart was only increasing the deeper into the ship she went. As though a well of gravity was slowly enclosing itself around the organ, Roahn swore she could feel tiny stabs of pain emitting from her chest with each step. A low and gentle throbbing also made her mind cold and fuzzy—the power of the knowledge that she was in the lion's den, seeking out the man that had upended her life and was tearing her thoughts asunder.

Roahn nearly threw caution to the winds as she picked up the pace just a tiny bit—everyone else matched her gait behind her. There truly did not seem to be anyone else on board this ship. Despite the entire arsenal she had packed, there had been no one that had crossed her path, no one to trade shots with, no one to run roughshod over that would otherwise impede her from barreling through the vessel's defenses like a rabid varren. As much as she searched for a reason to explode in a violent fury of her own, the opportunity to do so never cropped up.

Vile premonitions kept throwing themselves upon Roahn's mental defenses, trying to penetrate the fragile barrier that protected her from succumbing to despair. She was already toeing the line, that fateful edge, upon which a new future awaited. Aleph had said it himself, that he was willing to undo so much to achieve his envisioned reality.

"_**The Tranquility is the beginning that will usher in a new peace in the galaxy, a new mindset of cooperation."**_

Roahn's grip tightened on her weapon as her expression darkened. The fatal and flawed reasoning the cyborg had found rang tenuously in her soul. There was a part of her that feared knowing what Aleph's solution truly entailed, not because he could be wrong, but because he could be _right_.

All that she had worked for, all that she fought to stop: the PMCs, the blatant corruption, the slow decay of the institutions she had vowed to protect, all had demonstrated that there was a half-life to the galaxy as she knew it. And somehow Aleph had managed to find the reset button, or so he proclaimed. The so-called Tranquility, this fucking concept that he constantly blathered on about. It made Roahn sick just to even visualize the the word in her head.

"_**You will fail at first,"**_ the memory of Aleph's voice taunted, _**"for the Tranquility will proceed as planned. There is no stopping it."**_

_Wrong. I can stop it. I can stop you. I'll show you what the future entails. I'm here now, so show yourself!_

Without sparing another thought, Roahn headed down the door that had just revealed itself around the last corner, fixated firmly in her sight. To her surprise, it did not lead to the same endless tangle of halls and branching intersections. Stretched out before her was a wide, circular platform overhanging what appeared to be a bottomless pit. But it was not truly bottomless—Roahn could see dark and mirrored hexagonal panels rimming the interior of the spherical room, making it look like everyone had suddenly walked into an abyss. Deep red lights surged from the rim of the platform, emitting an aura that looked as if part of the room was on fire.

The far wall was not exactly a wall. The cluttered and strewn expanse of the spaceborne battlefield stretched out before her—invisible force fields were all that was protecting them from the coldness of the ship's exterior! The soft mingling of battleship fire and clustered detonations of doomed vessels formed a brightened spatter of irregular light from far away, a glittering waltz of death and metal shards.

She walked further upon the platform, where a cluster of screens in the center of the disc-like scaffold surrounded what looked like an industrial harness of some sort. Chains spooled across the ground near the object, surrounded by drying yellow liquid. Roahn approached the screens before recoiling with disgust—they were all showing violence on an incredibly sadistic scale: tortures of the worst sort Roahn had ever seen, prolonged rapes that blasted the wails of the victims heedless of their gender, topped off with rapid-fire montages of _blink-and-you'll-miss-it_ moments of bloodshed.

James and Sam came up to the harness and also glanced at the screens before they too exhibited similar visceral reactions.

"Jesus Christ," Sam muttered as he quickly turned his head away. "Can someone turn that crap off?"

James tilted his head, studying the contraption for a second, before he reached down and grabbed at a coaxial. He gave the bundled cord a yank and a nearby plug popped out of a socket. The videos thankfully folded in on themselves with a swift bleeping noise, providing a wonderful quiet to the expansive area.

"Thanks for that," Sam breathed.

"Yeah, don't mention it," James said joylessly.

While the two humans were busying themselves with looking at the contraption that the videos had all been clustered around, Roahn slowly walked in a hemisphere as she scanned the ceiling of the chamber. The design here was different from the rest of the ship, almost like there had been calculating thought into imbuing a little more menace in this area. Cables hung from lazy arcs while spindly-looking antennae and pipes jutted downward to create an upside-down skyline.

Weirdly, Roahn did note, was the fact that there appeared to be embedded turrets on the ceiling that ringed around the platform. But these were not regular mass accelerator cannons—they possessed razor-sharp spears that were attached to shear-proof cords. They reminded the quarian of the sort of weaponry ancient big-game hunters on Rannoch used to capture and kill _awano_, the largest sea creatures that ever roamed the oceans. The hunters used harpoons to stab them deep into their prey and would slowly reel them in towards their ships after the _awano_ had exhausted themselves, leaving them weak and helpless to be killed by the crew.

So why would someone have weaponry like this on a frigate like this?

Shaking her head, discarding that thought for the time being, Roahn continued to let her gaze roam about the ceiling, taking in the dark and twisted designs of the infernal ship until she spotted something hanging from the ceiling at the far edge of the room, vaguely silhouetted against the churning backdrop of the fleet battle. The object was skinny but large, a bit taller than Roahn herself. It certainly did not look inorganic. It appeared to be dangling by a cluster of chains, slowly rocking in a weak fashion while distant explosions formed an outline around its profile.

It was only when the object groaned did Roahn realize she was looking at a _person_.

Not just a person. _Korridon_.

Roahn's gasp was lost as the low concussion from a nearby imploding fighter rippled through the _Morningtide_. She jogged over to where the dangling turian was being suspended—his arms were raised over his head, wrists tied together as the chains rose upward towards a hidden snagpoint, acting as his uncomfortable bonds. The turian was faintly stirring, his eyes cracking open blearily. He looked so weak. The wound on his head where the Cardinal had removed part of his carapace had not fully healed—dried blood encrusted over one eye, nearly sealing it shut.

"Korr!" she finally yelled as she hurried over to the edge of the platform. The turian was dangling just beyond the lip of the dais. Simply cutting him loose would result in a rather brutal fall towards an almost certain death.

Korridon slowly raised his head, his swollen eyelids barely able to open for long.

"Ro-… Roahn?" he coughed.

"Hold on!" she blurted, adrenaline racing through her now that her friend was in close proximity. "We'll get you free in a moment!"

But the turian quickly shook his head, the effort jostling his body from where he hung.

"_B-Behind you!_" he screamed.

Right as he yelled those words, Roahn heard a metallic growl filter into the room. Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Roahn turned to face the source of the sound, her rifle feeling so much heavier in her hands.

Raucous, the quadruped predator, stood at the entrance to the room, all four clawed limbs scraping at the metallic floor. His eerie breath wisped like smoke. His eyes bled a constant fire. The animalistic cyborg made hissing sounds; teeth sharp as scimitars dully glinting from a metallic mouth. The four-legged creature slowly stalked forward, tail whipping back and forth, as his head swept to take stock of each person in the room, calculating his intended strike path.

Roahn froze as she saw the macabre synthetic creation slowly make their way from the entrance. There was no limp to Raucous' gait, no remaining damage from Garrus' earlier defense back on the Citadel. The sturdy construction that made up his body appeared to be completely repaired. The scratched and reflective metal of his faceplate glinted faint starbursts as he prowled forward, vacuous tubes at his neck slithering in raw hormones to keep his bloodlust peaked.

No one dared speak. No one raised their weapons out of fear as the metal brute kept himself simmering in a brutal anticipation, as though as he was waiting for his first target to reveal themselves. Now Roahn knew who the harness in the room had been meant for. This simple-minded creature had taken her arm. Chewed it off in one clean bite in a visceral gnashing of teeth. Embers seemed to sweep across the diameter of her arm, echoing a distant and remorseful pain. A reminder of what she had lost.

At the corner of her eye, she saw Sam's hand twitch towards his pistol. Raucous detected the movement and immediately whipped his head over to the doctor.

"No…" she growled as she whipped her rifle up. The cyborg tracked her actions and gave an unearthly hiss. "Me! Finish the job you started! I'm right here! _Try and kill me!_"

But Raucous did not listen to her. Instead, he gave a full-bodied roar as he sprung towards the hapless doctor. Roahn's three-round burst missed the cyborg cleanly, sailing overhead while he was mid-pounce. Sam had raised his pistol by this time and had unleashed two shots—both ricocheted off of Raucous' canine faceplate.

"Oh, fu—" Sam was about to get out.

Alloy claws dug trenches in the floor as Raucous powered his way forward. Upon nearing Sam, the cyborg tensed his hind legs and made another pounce in Sam's direction, swiping at the doctor with a blow powerful enough to take his head off. Sam sidestepped the attack at the last second, narrowly avoiding being disemboweled by the raking strike. But Raucous had expected an evasion and twisted his body on the backswing, careening his heavy tail directly into Sam's midsection. The doctor let out a pained expulsion of air as he was suddenly thrown across the room to skid across the floor. His panicked hands grappled for something to hold onto, but his momentum was so great that he was carried past the platform and over the lip entirely. There was a scraping sound as his fingernails snagged on the edge of the panels. He let out a frantic groan as his legs kicked out over empty air, desperate to haul himself back up.

"Form up!" Roahn shouted to the rest of her group that was still standing. "Focus fire! Aim for the head!"

Raucous was about to go over and finish Sam off, but had to abandon that plan because he was now being shot at from three different people. James and Sagan were providing a heavy volley, but it was from their commander that the tempo of their warring was dictated. Roahn's eyes were the barest of slits—she had just commanded her implants to dump a calculated dose of adrenaline in her system; time was slowing down to a near crawl for her. The quarian's shots smacked furiously upon Raucous' armor, sending out rabid streams of minimalistic and momentary light as the mass accelerated rounds abruptly lost all momentum in their brutal collisions. One bullet scraped along the side of the cyborg's head, shearing away one of his dopamine tubes and causing a stream of clear fluid to spatter the ground. A pressure warning resounded in Raucous' head—he gave a hellish scream, angered at being damaged so brazenly.

Cerulean beams from Sagan's Spitfire splashed riotously as the hot plasma came into contact with the cold steel of Raucous' thick armor plating. Snarling, the cyborg launched himself in the air, paws outstretched. Sagan saw the attack coming and made to duck underneath the rampant automation. However, Raucous had also anticipated this and viciously lashed out upon landing, his claws delivering a fearsome swipe to Sagan's left calf.

There was a ripping sound as synthetic muscle and polymer was rent to shreds. Gray tissue hung in sheets from the cavity of the geth's leg. White artificial blood and clear lubricants stained the floor underneath Sagan. The geth emitted no cry, but staggered away, his left leg unable to hold any weight.

"_Sagan!_" Roahn cried out, her outburst catching the limited attention of Raucous and forcing him to leave the geth alone… for now.

Raucous uttered an unearthly bay that drummed its way powerfully around the room. He sprang forward, embarking into a ferocious gallop. His head tilted ever so slightly to perceive James taking aim just to his left—a concussive round streaked across the ground with a severe hiss and hit the cyborg on his foreleg joint.

There was a powerful _whump!_ The four-legged beast stumbled, but did not go down completely.

Upon regaining his footing, Raucous shook himself like a canine—mini-grenades tumbled from openings in his armor, spraying them all across the room. A couple rolled their way towards James, the movement powered by small motors inside them. Infrared sensors had activated within the devices, honing in on the closest target.

"Son of a bitch!" James hollered right as the grenades erupted at his feet.

There were several swift pops and soon James was also skidding across the room, the front of his chestplate blackened. There was a faint shimmer around his body—he had activated a fortification barrier around himself just in time to catch the worst of the detonations. He was slow to rise, thoroughly discombobulated by the grenade assault.

Now it was just Roahn and Raucous. The cyborg sized the quarian up, alien noises emanating from his metallic throat, jaw slowly opening and closing to simulate breaths.

"Okay…" Roahn growled. She carefully sidestepped while she ejected a spent thermal clip. Sweat was running into her eyes. She was starting to see double. "Come on. What are you waiting for, _come on!_"

Whether Raucous was obeying Roahn's wish or his own was irrelevant. The cyborg plowed forward without hesitation, the young quarian firmly honed in on a central path. No distractions for him now. One on one, perhaps like it was meant to be.

"Chatika!" Roahn screamed as she activated her mother's drone.

A ball of orange light flickered into existence between her and Raucous. But before the drone could arc off a charge, the quadrupedal monstrosity slammed right _through_ it! Chatika disappeared in a scattershot flare around the cyborg, fragmented radiance shattering in broken sparks upon the front of Raucous' chassis. The cyborg continued to gallop through the holographic firestorm, streaming brilliant flares in his wake.

Roahn fired another burst, but Raucous' armor was too thick for her rounds to penetrate. She had to roll out of the way of the cyborg's charge—steel claws squealed on the floor as the beast tried to slow himself down, leaving behind thick white streaks. Roahn exited her roll and applied precision fire to Raucous' rear, but that area was heavily armored as well. She tried to go for a headshot, but none of her bullets seemed to do any damage! She pumped round after round into the metal hellspawn, not wanting to abandon any advantage until the creature had recovered to embark on another charge.

"Roahn!" Korridon continued to scream from above. "_Get out of here! He'll kill you!_"

An enraged Raucous reared himself up on his hind legs, exposing his armored belly. He opened his mouth and unleashed a pure roar of savagery, the noise loud enough to shake the dangling cables from the ceiling.

The quarian wavered, but was not driven to flee just yet. Right as Raucous was bellowing, Roahn took careful aim and sent a fiery carnage shot—a crimson comet—halfway across the room and right into Raucous' gullet! The cyborg dropped and coughed in pain, flames and smoke licking at the edges of his mouth. He shook his head in a daze, unquestionably discomforted.

"Felt _that_ one, did you?!" Roahn crowed.

Almost immediately, she wished she had not taunted the cyborg. Raucous' head snapped to face her, slanted eyes brimming with the fiercest of loathing. A burning hatred for her echoed there—a constant reminder of each denial he had suffered in the past from his efforts in trying to kill her. For his lust for ultraviolence was a painful tumor deep in the gut of the cyborg, a sarcoma that brought him absolute pain nearly every waking moment. And for this… indignant suited bitch to make his impotence all the more apparent?

Raucous' head dipped. A low rumble tremored past his cold teeth. Roahn bent her knees, steeling herself.

"_Fuck_…" she meekly muttered.

The cyborg did not waste any more time in erupting into a fearsome blitz towards the quarian, intent on gnashing her to pieces. Roahn's rifle crackled with rippling reports, but the effect was no different from the last several times. Raucous shrugged off the bullets like she had been flicking paper pellets at him. He took another swing at her head as he neared, almost shearing her _sehni_ from one of its fasteners. Roahn did not notice the cyborg's tail whipping around and was thus caught completely off guard when it smashed into her hands and bodily _ripped_ her rifle out of them, the housing now cracked and useless, trailing blue sparks.

Right away, Roahn's mind lost all tactical ability. Panic flooded her brain, filled every single cell of her body with dread. She scrambled away, forgetting to draw what weapons she still had secured to her waist!

The memory of her lying in a paralytic state on Luna, bleeding heavily from a gaping wound in her hand while the very same cyborg prepared to chomp his glowing-hot teeth down upon her arm, left her momentarily in disarray. It was almost as if she expected that same sensation to impart itself upon her in the next few moments—an agonizing reminder of the terrible blow that had damaged more than just flesh. But the thought of seeing her dark blood spurt from her torn arteries again, looking upon stark white knobs of bone while the scent of her scorched flesh reached her nose—

Roahn screamed in fear, fueled by the horrifying memory, and took off towards the edge of the platform, Raucous hot on her heels. She could dimly hear Korridon shouting something at her from his position, but she could not tell what it was. A limp hose swayed enticingly near the lip of the dais—beyond it Roahn could see a side entrance where a short walkway jutted out. All she had to do was swing from the hose and use her momentum to reach the other side where Raucous would not be able to easily traverse. Simple enough, in theory.

Unfortunately, reality did not match at all what Roahn had in mind.

With a savage leap, Roahn jumped into empty air for a moment before her hands successfully grasped the hanging tube. She made a quick noise of victory but that quickly turned into a whimper of terror because her trajectory was taking her off at an angle far away from where her intended destination—the door—had lied. Instead, she was headed straight for a tangled garden of cabling, cords of every thickness sloppily grouped in a chaotic and knotted forest that looped, twisted, and trapped the quarian right as she swung her way into it!

The suited woman grunted and flailed as she became interlaced into the hanging grove. She unintentionally let go of the hose she had used to traverse in here—the multitude of other cables secured her from falling, but she was quickly becoming more and more raveled within them the longer she lingered. Her fear was rising again. Thrashing and writhing in desperation was only making her situation worse and worse. Roahn was breathing hard, almost to the point of howling as she struggled to get herself free.

As she tumbled and turned while ensnared in the interlaced tangle, Roahn quickly felt the morass of cabling give a tremendous shudder. Taut wires trembled against her body. The terrified quarian looked down—Raucous had jumped into the interlaced mesh to get at her! The combined snarl of cabling was able to support even the tremendous weight of the monstrosity!

The cyborg was also soon becoming trapped as coils and coils of knotted bundling fell upon his head and snarled his limbs. But the lacerating hooks in his paw easily parted the bands of copper and glass, shearing them in two and causing purple sparks to blaze over the area. He ignited his teeth, causing brief whiffs of flame to sizzle from his mouth as he bit any intruding cords that came within reach of his long mouth.

Both suspended in the air, Raucous was slowly swiping a path to reach the quarian, all the while frantically snapping his jaw at her like a rabid predator. Roahn was screaming at this point, her limbs seemingly acting of their own accord as she tried to surge herself free. Her legs feebly kicked out, but cables had completely wrapped around her ankles. She was trapped.

The cyborg kept slashing and slashing. Cables ripped and parted from the savage blows Raucous imparted. He was within feet of Roahn—soon he would be able to chew into her body and spill her guts upon the floor. The quarian was deathly still, hyperventilating and eyes wide as plates, as she beheld her destiny approaching. She had not even made it to her goal, in the end. She would not see her father again. Nothing she did would matter, in the long run.

But a tiny voice, almost unnoticeable over the din, pressed upon her mind.

_Relax_.

Relax… yes.

With a fierce grunt, Roahn sent her thoughts spiraling away to trigger the haptic feedback that surged just underneath her skin. Her omni-blade manifested itself around her prosthetic limb and in one swift strike, she cleaved a tremendous arc through the snarl, slicing through a bundle of cabling as easy as carving a cake.

The frayed ends of the wires spat molten metal. Roahn felt gravity tugging at her back and she let out a yell as she felt herself slipping through the new gap in the hanging garden. There was a moment of silence as she tumbled through the free air. With a loud clang, she was able to land on her feet back on the platform, omni-blade still extended and blazing with a humming energy.

_Now let's try this again._

There was an onrushing of air, akin to the moment before a cresting wave approached. A shudder and a loud cacophony behind Roahn told her that Raucous had also jumped down to join her. She turned to face the snarling predator. Both stood absolutely still in that moment, neither one wanting to embark on the next attack first. They beheld similar dangers from one another, no longer sure of their superiority.

Roahn looked at the blade that hummed around her arm—bullets had not worked to even scratch Raucous, but would this do the trick? Or would going in even closer to this mutated freak only serve to invite further harm upon her?

A loud shout from the center of the platform drew both of their attentions before either could make a move.

"Oy, _coño!"_

James had recovered from Raucous' earlier attack and was now standing next to the harness. In his hands was the coaxial that he had previously yanked out upon entering the room. The cyborg recognized this—the panels making up his "fringe" began to quiver uncontrollably. A low and trilling whimper crept from his throat as he watched the human deliberately plug the cable back into the socket.

In a baroque demonstration reminiscent of the most splendid of flowers blooming, the macabre montage of all of the various snuff films surged back to life in a collated and tiled anthology. Splashes of blood on the virtual screens flowed copiously. The screams from the dying and violated moaned through hidden speakers. Cackling laughter from the offscreen tormenters joined the fray. The gore was plentiful—decapitated heads, degloved limbs, raw and exposed nerve endings yanked, tracheas torn out by electrical tools, it was all too horrifying to watch.

But Raucous could not turn his head away from the spectacle. He became transfixed at the gruesome assemblage, mesmerized as he soaked in the brutality and the bloodshed. He suddenly seemed uninterested in anyone else in the room, hopelessly fixated and unable to look at anything else except the despicable images on the screens.

Roahn gaped at the now-calmed cyborg. _The clips_, she realized, _they satiate him, somehow! _Another thought came to mind and she looked up towards the ceiling, rediscovering the ring of turrets that aimed inwardly towards the middle of the platform.

_Those aren't meant for us. They're meant for him._

Heartbeat racing, Roahn pulled up her omni-tool and… yes! She could detect the turrets on a partitioned network, but she had to be in close proximity to each of them! Real close—directly underneath, in fact.

"James, move!" she screamed as she sprinted to the first turret. The man booked it as fast as he could to the exit, off the platform. Once the quarian was underneath her objective, she spliced in a small bit of code—the turret creaked to life and immediately began tracking the target she had just sent to its memory: Raucous.

With a _CLANG_ and a puff of steel smoke, the turret propelled the synthDiamond-tipped spear at a brutalizing velocity, a stiff cable trailing behind in its wake. Roahn watched as the spear sliced through the air and penetrated Raucous' left hind leg clean through!

The noise of the projectile punching through the cyborg sounded like a metallic bone cracking in half. Right away, the cyborg gave a howl approximating pain and staggered in place. A slick fluid wept from the puncture area and widened into a puddle beneath his feet. Raucous tried to shy away, but the cable connecting the spear to the turret refused to yield—the razor-sharp projectile was embedded too much to be removed so easily.

Emboldened, Roahn dashed to the next turret and sent out the same line of code once in proximity. The turret activated, honed in on Raucous, and fired. This bolt now went through the cyborg's left front leg! The primal screech that the creature roared was nearly enough to shatter the glass of Roahn's mask. But she was not finished yet.

From emplacement to emplacement, Roahn embarked on a wide circuit of the platform as she waved her omni-tool at each individual turret she passed. The large weapons each took a second to cycle upon being reactivated, but all hit their targets as directed. More spears surged through the air, filling it with the taut and trembling ropes as they anchored Raucous in place. The cyborg soon bristled with unbreakable bolts—he now had one in each leg, two through his neck, and three distributed within his midsection. Still Raucous was moving, albeit very feebly as he was making whimpering noises. Lubricants dribbled from wounds in the cyborg's body. His head twisted this way and that, hurt and confused.

Slowly, Roahn approached the kebabbed metal creature, omni-tool still emblazoned around her arm.

"I hope it hurts," she spat to the pathetic and dying beast. "I hope it's every bit as painful as what you did to me."

Now Raucous finally appraised her directly, his ominous eyes now locked onto hers. But even with his baleful gaze, there was a miserable dimness, a sense of defeat, churning just beneath. Unwilling to let his final moment be so humiliating, the cyborg summoned his last reserve of strength and let out a roar of defiance, hoping to unnerve the quarian one last time.

But Roahn did not back down in the face of the deafening noise. Instead, she answered with a howl of her own, one that rang tortuously in her own ears, as her eyes bled fire and mouth was locked open in a hateful snarl. The sound seemed to cower the cyborg, who gave the barest of bristles and flinched away from the insane woman.

Raucous, for the first time in a long time, truly felt fear.

At the same time, Roahn commanded all the turrets in the room to begin reeling in their spears, cavernous gears militantly clanking across greased rails. Tremendous force, pulling in all directions, now exerted all their efforts upon the central point where their anchors were located. Slowly, Raucous was raised off the ground as all of the cables began to pull him in opposite directions around the room. Soon, his four legs were splayed out as he was hung in the air—the cables were making pinging noises as they were straining against the force. The bizarre sight of the cyborg being hoisted several feet above the platform like a high-wire trapeze artist was something to behold, even if the effects were not at all entertaining.

The weakened Raucous kept attempting to free himself from the spears holding him in place, to no avail. The sharpened four-point broadheads were so large that removal was impossible. Suspended, limbs pulled close to snapping, harsh groaning noises from the cyborg's chassis began to resound as the thick metal started to warp.

A hissing noise… then a snap! Bits of bolts and metal popped like a gunshot, raining down in a gray hail. One of Raucous' joints just gave out.

Another crackle and hollow crunch followed. Then another. And another. Raucous' body was slowly being torn apart by the grueling horsepower!

The cables holding Raucous were now quaking, tensile strength nearing its breaking point. The beast's body was clearly failing first, as evident by the horrifically thick and savage noises that were resounding throughout the room. Hoses alongside Raucous' body frayed and snapped away, fizzling light blue fluid in a thin spray. The frame along his underside was heavily distorting from the force, bending and rippling to the command of the myriad spears pulling and tugging at him, ripping him apart from all angles.

The motors in the winding mechanisms of the turrets gave a wrench. The mounting on Raucous' belly finally gave in and tore in a ragged page. A strip of the cyborg's framework ripped from his abdomen to his chest, exposing a shocking red mass of organs surrounded by bio-fluids. Roahn gaped as she caught sight of the monster's innards, the true individual inside the beastly creation.

Before the final surge of force came upon him, Raucous, no longer yowling in pain, turned his reptilian head to look at the quarian.

From his throat, a quiet and surprisingly tender voice arose.

"_Please_…"

The sounds from the overexerted turrets reached a thin whine. They belched heat and sparks as they began to overload, but not before they mustered one final effort upon their tortured mechanisms.

That one final effort was all it took to end it.

Roahn watched silently as the thick ropes strained and tugged, pulling Raucous apart into several pieces in an instant. The cyborg's body messily cracked in half with a wrenching howl and a heavy gurgle—two of his legs had also been ripped from their sockets at the same time. The contents of Raucous' gutsac tumbled from their cold prison, slid through the opening in his upper half, and hit the floor with a disgusting splatter. The pile of organs sprayed thin streams of blood from up to a meter away. The remaining pieces of the cyborg soon fell to the ground in a final cacophony, the warbling light in Raucous' eyes now darkened forever.

Breathing heavily, Roahn backed up from the remains of the cyborg, nearly in a daze. She wanted to sag against a wall for a second, but she knew that if she relaxed for even the briefest of moments, her entire mindset would be undone. The quarian envisioned Aleph elsewhere on the ship, perhaps having watched this little battle, in the middle of an enraged scream at the loss of one of his lackeys. The thought brought a cruel smile to her face. Somewhere, in a corner of her head, a headache threatened to crop up.

"Keelah," was all she could say. Pant, more like, as she bent over so that she could place her hands on her knees as white spots threatened to interfere with her vision.

From above, she heard a whooping noise.

"You _did_ it!" Korridon both cried and laughed at the same time, while fighting back a grimace while his upraised wrists were starting to trickle blood down his arms. "Spirits, Roahn, you actually did it!"

Roahn looked up at the dangling turian, the curvature of her mask filled with the image of the bound prisoner.

"_Korr_…" she whispered under her breath, soft enough so that only she could hear her own words.

The quarian looked for something to get the turian down with. Over by the harness, there was a small control panel. Seemed like an obvious place to start. The controls on it were intuitive—one button push later and a small motor churned, slowly lowering Korridon down to the ground.

She was there to meet him in time to catch him before he collapsed. She activated her omni-sword for just a moment in order to shear the man's bonds. Korridon gasped as he could finally bring his arms back down and bit back a curse—he must have accumulated some underlying damage from having his arms forced to hang straight up for what must have been hours. Injuries to his muscles and nerves were most likely unavoidable at this point.

"Look at me," Roahn told Korridon as she gripped his chin anyway, gently moving his head this way and that, checking him for any serious wounds.

Korridon had certainly looked better, but there was no lasting damage to the man that Roahn could see. Blue blood had soaked the sleeves of the turian's tunic and the head wound looked a lot nastier than it actually was. The turian was weak, half-starved, and dehydrated. She did not give him a thorough examination but she surmised that, underneath the surface, she would find evidence of more sophisticated tortures marking Korridon's body. Sam would be able to give her a better update on the man—signs of internal abuse, such as forced ingestion of chemicals or waterboarding, would most likely show up from such a checkup. The length of the turian's stay on the _Morningtide_ had certainly not treated him kindly.

_Perhaps it's what he deserves_, Roahn sadly thought to herself as she continued to hold the turian, regardless. Was that not what Aleph had told her outright? That Korridon had cracked underneath all the pressure placed upon him and had blabbed about her father's location?

Did Korridon truly deserve her empathy, knowing that he had sold them all out?

Thankfully her visor shielded her distrustful expression as Korridon began to regain his senses. He gazed upon her in awe, uncertain if he was in a hallucination or not.

"I don't believe it…" he muttered. "You're _here_, Roahn. I… I don't know what to… what to…"

"Can you walk?" Roahn interrupted, certain if she were to let Korridon continue, she would begin to forgive him. Accusations could come later. "Can you stand?"

"I think so. I can… I can try…"

Korridon gave a tense groan, slamming his eyes shut, as his shaky legs struggled to support his weight. Roahn had to help lift him up, keeping the turian's frame safely set against hers as they rose together.

"You came all this way for me?" he asked, drunkenly wobbling on unsteady footing.

Roahn had to look away. "My father's here somewhere, too. I have to get him."

"Oh." The disappointment in his tone was palpable. "I'm so sorry, Roahn."

_I'll bet you are!_ she nearly spat.

Instead, she asked, "Have you seen him? Do you know where he is on the ship?"

Korridon limply shook his head. "I only saw… those cybernetic creatures. They kept jabbing me with their needles… asking me questions…"

He trailed off as Roahn began to lead him closer to the center of the room. Roahn felt dangerous with the turian against her, her blood locked in a slow simmering broil.

She looked over and saw James assisting a hobbling Sagan, one of the geth's arms having been thrown over the muscular man's shoulders. Sam had also walked over, clutching at a spot on his side where he had been struck by Raucous, trying to hide a grimace of pain. Roahn jogged over to join them.

Roahn gaped in horror as she could take in the severity of Sagan's injuries a little more intensely now that no one was trying to kill her in the moment. The muscle on the geth's calf was _gone_, sheared clean away from the underlying structure. A wound like that would have caused an organic to bleed out in seconds. For a synthetic like Sagan, he was ambling about like he had merely stubbed his toe.

"Sagan," she said as her eyes ominously watched the growing puddle of white synthetic liquid spread from where it dribbled down the geth's ankle. "Are you okay? Do you need—"

"Mobility to my platform has been severely compromised," Sagan reported as casually as if he was discussing the weather. "This will require significant repairs to return to full functionality."

"But do you think you're going to be all right?" Roahn pressed.

"There is no need for alarm. I have isolated coagulant pathways to the affected area that will prevent further loss of necessary fluids. Upper body components are still able to perform at their full range of capabilities, though total performance has been reduced. I may now act as a hindrance to your objective, Creator. I apologize."

James gave a grunt as he adjusted the position of Sagan's arm around him. He looked to Roahn.

"Roahn, this guy's in a bad way. We can't just leave him to his own devices. I can take him back to the shuttle and drop him off there before rejoining you guys."

The quarian gave a slow look to the man she was physically supporting before turning back to James.

"Korridon's hurt too, James. He's not going to be able to keep up. Will you be able to take them both back?"

"Sure," James affirmed. "I'll make sure that nothing bad happens to them."

Korridon stared helplessly at Roahn, his knees buckling as he tensed his lethargic muscles.

"Roahn… I can still—"

"Not up for discussion," she hissed as she gingerly led the turian over to James' side of the room and handed him off to the stalwart marine.

"_Please_, Roahn… I—"

But the quarian moved away from the begging turian, who was now being led in the opposite direction by James. Roahn caught Sam's eye as he headed over to join her, slightly limping, but mustering through the pain nonetheless.

"You tagging along?" she asked aloud.

Unnoticeable behind her, Sam shrugged.

"Someone's got to make sure you don't go into this alone," he said. If Roahn just looked back at the human, she could see that he was unsure of himself, but he was going along with this regardless.

Adjacent door directly ahead, the new objective in her sights, Roahn tightly grinned.

"Then don't fall behind."

* * *

Elsewhere on the _Morningtide_, Garrus was fighting through the last lingering reminder of a rather bad headache, making what had been a stressful day all the more excruciating to power through. He had also faced the same roadblocks that Roahn and her team had encountered, namely the ever-twisting corridors being a constant nuisance to his navigational skills. In his wake, Jack, Liara, and Grunt were sharing similar complaints, but not of them were focusing their gripes solely upon him.

Yet.

All that was about to change when they had finally come across a door, a welcome reprieve from the infinite stretch of halls they had probably spend half an hour trying to traverse.

Their relief quickly turned into horror once they saw what was behind that obstruction.

An immense chamber, the dimensions incomprehensible to the naked eye. The distant walls invisible and measureless, reflecting the enormity of the room.

The place was filled with several of these large devices that looked like skewed and twisted versions of aquariums to Garrus. Large in stature, perhaps an additional half a meter taller than he was, the devices were mammoth and squat—a massive tank filled with a sickly light green liquid situated on top of a thick black base made out of a cold metal. A multitude of tubes ran from the bottom of the tank, scattered haphazardly across the floor. Garrus switched on the flashlight to his weapon and slowly traced the direction of the wires and the tubes, noting that they connected to larger bundles of similar cabling and that these bundles ran evenly between the rows and columns of these strange apparatuses. The echelons of equipment stretched beyond the limits of his vision, spanning the very edges of the gigantic chamber, he imagined. There must be hundreds of them in here.

His curiosity getting the better of him, he approached the closest tank, squinting as he tried to peer inside to view its contents. He was in for a shock when a dark object within thumped something at him—a limb?—against the interior of the glass. Thick liquid sloshed against the barrier. He jumped back and nearly fumbled his rifle.

"What the-?!" he uttered in alarm.

"Fuck me!" Jack exclaimed, similarly startled.

Liara, having calmed down first, ventured back towards the tank and gently placed a hand upon it. Whatever was inside had stopped thrashing about, the pool of fluids within slowly calming, allowing the asari to take a closer look within.

She had an appalled look on her face as she slowly pulled away before she turned to Garrus.

"There are _bodies_ in there."

Everyone in the group shared confused glances with one another before they stepped up to confirm Liara's statement with their own eyes. One by one, they hovered around the tank and eventually stumbled away once their interests in finding out the truth had been satiated, their expressions spanning the gamut from befuddled to disgusted.

"_Two_ bodies in there," Grunt clarified. "One human. One asari."

"Hooked up to machines and forced to… _copulate_," Garrus said, almost unable to finish the sentence. "What… what the hell are we _looking_ at? Check those other tanks, see what's in them!"

The squad swiftly broke apart to diligently scrutinize the array of equipment presented before them. They did not want to embark in too wide of a radius, knowingly concerned at the possibility of getting lost in this torture field. No one wasted any time in making quick deductions of their surroundings and they all quickly rejoined Garrus back at the first machine.

"Same thing over there," Jack jerked a thumb from where she had just come. "All the tanks only have two bodies in them. No more, no less. Except the pairings were different from vat to vat. I saw turians in there too. And salarians. Sometimes they were with their own species. Sometimes they weren't."

"Yeah, that's what I saw too," Grunt pointed a finger. "Except I found some readouts on the sides of the tanks. They were injecting compounds into some of the victims. Potent crap, nothing that would be at all copacetic to these poor bastards. The screens didn't say what the purpose was for, but that it was part of a trial group of some kind."

"Two people to a tank," Liara mused, "all in similar throes, with seemingly random pairings, and some bolstered by chemical compounds. If there's a point to this experiment, then I'm not seeing it."

"Maybe the brutality _is_ the point," Jack offered, a sneer coming to her lips. "That was the case when Cerberus had me and hundreds of other kids locked in cells back on Pragia. Torturing us. Mutilating us. They had an end goal then, but they were fine with incurring a lot of collateral damage in the process."

The asari was unsure, despite the fact that Jack was probably the most knowledgeable person on the subject in their group.

"Nothing we've seen from our foes has indicated that any of their decisions have been driven by impulse. There was a reason why these individuals were placed in these tanks. But without any data, we won't be able to tell what it is we're truly looking at."

Garrus shook his head, world-weary from lingering in the room.

"Point or no, these people don't deserve to be in here a second longer than necessary. Is there anything we can do to free them?"

Liara looked anxious, almost as if she knew that question was going to be posed and regretted that she would be the one to answer. First, she beckoned for Garrus to look closer into the nearest tank and pointed towards the outline of the topmost body within.

"I don't think we can do anything for them. See the tubes sticking from the multiple sites on their bodies? They've been pumping nutrients and drugs into the victims for who knows how long, keeping them alive for as long as possible. They've been crudely inserted into either their orifices or deliberately pushed through their skin layer. Trying to cut them loose will kill them. Also, there's no way to slowly drain these tanks—they're only designed for immediate flushing. The combined shock from being placed into open air after being submerged in liquid for so long will also cause many to slip into cardiac arrest. We can't adjust for that, either."

Garrus shut his eyes, undoubtedly feeling the weight of the mounting pile of decisions rest uncomfortably atop his head. He certainly had not been expecting to weigh his opinion on something like this today, or perhaps ever. The turian gazed upon the fogged silhouettes of the helpless individuals sloshing around in the large container. He wondered if they even knew that potential salvation had been so close, practically right outside of their glass prison. The addled minds of the victims were perhaps too far gone to understand, having lost track of all time and reason in their blind and deafened states.

"Are we able to put them out of their misery?" His voice was sharp, but hoarse.

No one brought up alternative solutions. They had all come to the same conclusion he had. Or maybe they did not want to be at all responsible for this choice. But it had to fall to someone in the end, as all things eventually do.

The asari next to him managed a wistful nod. "We should follow the largest tubing bundle on the floor. It'll lead us to the central server."

Trying to not dwell on the direness of their surroundings lest they all fall to misery, the group then proceeded down one of the rows, keeping themselves equidistant between the array of tanks that flanked them on either side. The tubing on the ground, black and vein-like, snaked into wider wads of even larger cables. These swerved in different directions the larger the assortment grew—the group dutifully followed the growing accumulation, keeping their flashlights trained on the floor just a few feet in front of them.

Soon enough, the four of them were guided to a singular console station—a lone beacon in the midst of this dreary room. A few tanks, currently devoid of victims, surrounded them.

Garrus stepped up to the screen and gave a few taps upon the haptic surface. There were no security procedures for him to crack. Most likely, the commanders of this ship never figured that they would ever be boarded during their tenure. This made things somewhat easier, at least.

"I've connected to all of the life support systems," Liara announced. Her face then turned remorseful as her voice lowered an octave. "Do you want me to proceed, Garrus?"

He would have dearly liked to have said "no." He did not want his hands to have been stained with the blood of innocents. The turian had mulled over this conundrum for several minutes already, wondering what Shepard would have done in his stead. His first instinct was that the human would have miraculously found a way to save everyone, even when the odds were stacked against him. Could Shepard have succeeded here where Garrus was about to fail? Was there a better way, this whole time, that he had managed to overlook?

Did Garrus even want to know that he could have triumphed against this adversity? Was it ever possible?

"Bring them peace," he told Liara, unwilling to look her in the eye.

There was barely any sound as the asari tapped in the fateful keystrokes. How odd, to have the fate of hundreds tied to the simple action of a few finger combinations. A faint gurgle from the tubes at their feet was the first noise they noticed as all the life support systems delegated to the tanks died with ignominious whimpers. The constant bubbling that emitted from the nutrient fluid activators also ceased, bringing about a well of silence Garrus did not know had been possible.

Some of the bodies in the tanks thrashed a few times before they suddenly ceased, their ends having come quickly. Garrus let out a heavy sigh. He had spared these people further pain, at least. Whatever the consequences, he knew he had done the right thing.

But there were others who did not see it that way.

A purple orb suddenly shot from the darkness. Lobbed from the shadows, it brimmed with unstable energy before it finally collided in the middle of the group. An indigo shockwave rippled from the epicenter, nearly throwing everyone off their feet. One of the empty tanks nearby shattered, littering broken glass across the floor in hefty crunches. Garrus jumped backward in alarm, his radiation detectors silently resounding a warning.

From above, it seemed, a white and skeletal looking being dropped with a thud only to slowly levitate themselves a few inches above the ground after making contact. A metallic and upright arachnid, alabaster and ivory armor gleaming even in the shallow light. They furiously turned, a barrier of biotic force surrounding them, while multiple limber arms anchored at their back splayed out in the air like insectoid legs, pincers at the end menacingly clamping down to create loud clangs.

"How _dare_ you?!" the Cardinal screeched, blue optic light upon her head bright as a spotlight. The eerie mechanical nature of the cyborg made her seem all the more terrifying as her expressionless head swiveled to face each member of Garrus' squad in turn. "Do you have any idea what you've just _done?!_ Years and years of work… _ruined_ from your interference!"

The Cardinal gave another banshee-like wail before she descended upon Jack, who was closest. She pounced upon the thin woman, using her topmost arachnid arms to swipe down in a deadly blow. Jack threw up her hands at the last second, creating a thin shield around her body that the arms furiously sparked against.

Not one to be deterred so easily, the Cardinal soon began to rotate her forearms while her pincer-like hands began to slowly draw in an azure wattage that took the form of glowing orbs surrounding her appendages. The Cardinal was biotic! Somehow, she had the ability to manipulate dark energy for her own ends! The cyborg was soon spinning her arms to twenty revolutions per second, now manifesting as propeller-like whirls with glowing rings surrounding the fulcrum points.

"You've made a grave miscalculation!" the Cardinal hissed. "Typical organic hubris!"

As soon as she had gained enough energy for her own needs, the Cardinal slammed her limbs down again on Jack's shield, only this time the rotations of her arms, plus the accumulated biotic energy, was enough to break the shield in one fell stroke! Jack staggered away as the remains of her shield fell apart around her in fragile sheets like burning paper, nose already bleeding from the sudden effort. She barely was able to bring her hands to her front, manifesting another shield in time to catch a succeeding blow from the Cardinal that was directly aimed at her midsection. Jack gave a cry as the machine's curved arc slammed into her front, sending her flying down an adjacent lane, her strength almost immediately expended. She rolled to a stop as she hit the floor, momentarily stunned.

White electric bolts jittered from the Cardinal's spindly arms, surrounding the gaunt creature. She levitated closer to the group, who had now opened fire upon her without saying a word. But the cyborg calmly lifted two of her arms, creating an azure disc between them. The bullets sent her way sparked and fizzled uselessly, unable to penetrate the biotic barrier.

"You'll have to do better than that!" the Cardinal cackled.

There was a thick racking sound as Grunt levelled his shotgun.

"Fine," the krogan rumbled right before he unleashed a blazing bolt—a carnage shot.

The Cardinal dropped the barrier in time for her to step out of the way of the blast. Her biotic shields still rippled in the heat backwash, emanating as futile power surges traveling up her arms. Her head whirled to face Grunt, the blue angelic light blazing a hole through the darkness.

"Grunt!" Garrus shouted. "Don't let her get too close to you!"

But Grunt, although an excellent soldier, was not the mobile type and thus unable to clear the immediate radius of the Cardinal's quick attacks right away. Thrusters on the back of the cybernetic monstrosity activated, shunting her forward several feet in the blink of an eye. Her arms crossed and savagely lashed out in blazing swipes, cutting thin purple lines through the air as the biotic-enhanced blades whirled in a deadly dance.

Grunt backpedaled, bellowing in surprise as the thin arms of the Cardinal barely cut scratches into his armor, sending out brief licks of sparks as the metal collided against metal. The cyborg was relentless, pushing forward with a vengeance as she sought to slice the krogan to pieces, but none of her attacks, as precise as they were, penetrated skin.

The krogan, unused to being overwhelmed in combat, suddenly was overcome by a blinding lust for blood. Enraged at seemingly being rendered impotent, he lashed out with his shotgun, swinging it like a club, ignoring the intended purpose for which it was built.

The Cardinal sidestepped the blow almost casually—a spider-like arm jabbed out, knocking the weapon out of Grunt's grip. The young warrior, now thoroughly pissed off, gave a hellish roar, shaking the cavern around him with its volume, before he embarked on a desperate charge, intent on tackling the Cardinal to the ground. But the cyborg was too nimble for the krogan to overcome as she deftly floated out of the way of the rampant assault, leaving Grunt nothing to attack except the empty air in front of him. To add insult to injury, the Cardinal stuck out a stilt-like leg, catching Grunt's feet and causing him to tip forward in a fateful tumble.

The krogan rolled and bounced along the ground before finally smashing into the side of one of the full tanks. The force was enough to crumple the base of the contraption, denting it severely, while also bending and ultimately breaking the heavyset glass of the tank, unleashing a torrent of foul-smelling nutrient liquid, along with two partially decayed bodies that had been left in there for a time. The two bodies both disintegrated as they hit the ground, crumping into bloody chunks that spilled dark fluids across the ground in a sudden tidal wave.

The Cardinal floated above the mayhem, growing ever angrier at the destruction of her lab.

"Impose yourself on my project all you want. You'll all soon be new additions to the convocation. Helpless. Restrained. Completely at my mercy."

Her arms snapped and jerked, spinning in tortured pinwheels, spraying purple sparks and metal shavings in the vicinity.

"Hell will be preferable compared to what I can do to you," she continued to seethe. "And I'll enjoy the cultivation of your fear and your pain. Given the right body chemistry and moderation of pain infliction, I will be able to torture you for years on end. I'll gouge out your eyes so that the darkness is ever present for you. I'll rip out your tongue so that you won't be able to beg for death! You'll be castrated, skinned, pumped full of beta-blockers to keep you from succumbing to a heart attack! I'll hang you all as living trophies to my prowess! Eternal violation and mutilation—an eye for an eye!"

"Not if we can help it!" Garrus fired back, right before he triggered an overload on his omni-tool. "_Now_, Liara!"

One of the Cardinal's arms suddenly went limp as an electrical flare burst from a nearby joint. The cyborg looked at the useless appendage in astonishment.

"_Bastard!_" she screamed, all of her concentration momentarily focused on her temporarily deactivated limb.

Enough time for the incoming asari to descend from on high like a projectile, hands balled into tight, glowing fists as she exited the arc from her initial leap. Liara's mouth was set in a silent cry, eyes luminous orbs of melted white. Trembling waves rippled from the soles of her boots and the very fabric of space seemed to waver in her presence!

But the Cardinal was fast. Too fast.

Before Liara could unleash a punishing warp upon the cyborg, the Cardinal seemed to supernaturally ascertain the asari's midair approach. The bone-white chassis turned, all limbs functional again, and with a powerful but punishing ignition, billowed a caustic singularity that froze the asari at the terminus of her approach! Liara's warp zapped fruitlessly from her fingertips as the manipulated gravity caused her focus to waver! In desperation, she gave a bioticially-fueled push to the ceiling so that she could plant her feet back down on the ground, maintaining her focus long enough to send out a stable stasis field that halted two of the Cardinal's arms that embarked in a brutal thrust, hoping to spear straight through the asari.

The two beings were locked in their biotic tangle, neither one speaking as the maintained their drive, their determination. But Liara was slowly losing ground against her faceless opponent. Despite the limited stasis, the Cardinal was pushing forward with an assured strength, her deep power reserves giving her all the stamina she needed. Savage electricity crackled between the two, zapping off nearby surfaces, drowning out the sinister chuckle the cyborg was emitting as she surged her arms closer and closer, dull green tips evilly inching their way forward, intent on piercing Liara's chest!

A sharp blaze pierced the terrible stalemate in the form of the omni-blade that had extended from Garrus' rifle. A curve of fire sliced between the Cardinal and Liara—the cyborg staggered away, two of her arms now sizzling stumps, the other six twitching and trembling in reaction to this unexpected setback.

The Cardinal let out a hiss as she suddenly darted behind one of the tanks, out of sight. Garrus momentarily knelt down to examine Liara, who was exhausted but unharmed. He got back up as he shoved the stock of his rifle against his shoulder, keeping his ears trained for any sudden noises.

"Last chance to retreat," he called out. "You're wounded. Step aside and let us pass. You'll only lose more of yourself if you fight us."

From all around, echoing off every singular object in the chamber, the Cardinal's manic and metallic laugh lingered ominously, filling Garrus' mind with dread.

"Fool," her voice cackled. "I've lost everything already. What more of myself could I possibly abandon? I've never had ownership of myself for a long time. My body… my mind… I have nothing left to give!"

Garrus trudged forward, eye narrowed down on the sights of his weapon, breathing slow and laborious. His profile was constantly distorted like an eternal fish-eye lens from every one of the barbaric tanks he passed. His footsteps were wet, liquid, in this cavernous hall.

Still invisible, the Cardinal continued to linger with her taunting.

"You cling to the fragilities of your flesh, turian. You shy away from pain and discomfort—privileges your kind take for granted every day. Do you think trading those away is a choice that I had made lightly? Or do you imagine that I was offered a choice at all? _My_ future was decided without my input—now my only goal is to decide the future of _others!_"

An earsplitting roar blared right at Garrus' left. The turian turned just in time to see the Cardinal leap out at him, remaining arms crackling with energy and humming with the desire to see his guts spilled onto the floor. Without thinking, he raised his rifle to block an overhead blow—the force nearly ripped his arms out of their sockets! Winded and sore, he barely brought his weapon around to catch another incoming strike from the side, the clang of metal on metal performing a steady percussive beat. There was no time for him to let off a shot. He was alone with this monster, locked in close-quarters battle!

The Cardinal leaned forward, external speakers emitting an inhuman bellow, a scream that hid a deeper hate, one that clung to a barren longing, reminders of depleted and useless efforts.

"_This is what is destined for you!_" the Cardinal raged, her entire body turning with each brutal strike series that pummeled and bruised Garrus' body. "This endemic anger! A lingering ruination! Your own impotence laid bare in plain sight!"

Twin pillars of effervescent light were slung just inches from Garrus' face. He had to duck to avoid the whirlwind of the Cardinal's arms.

"All that I have left is my service to Aleph! My savior! My betrayer! My antagonist! My forerunner!"

She punctuated each descriptor with a powerful blow. Garrus was knocked over onto the ground by one, his weapon skidding just out of reach.

"You had _everything!_ Everything you could have ever wanted and it wasn't enough! You failed! The Tranquility is over! You will die, knowing you couldn't stop it in time! Now comes the era of reckoning!"

From behind the cyborg, one of her arms protruded a dull spike of olive-green metal, barely lit from the shafts of lightning that emitted from her generators in quick darts.

"Now comes the Immortalization!"

The Cardinal plunged the spike forward with a blistering stab. There was a dull _thunk_ as it punched through armor and flesh, hitting home!

Garrus bellowed as he felt a searing pain in his side, an abrupt light seeming flaring from his eyes. He looked down to see his blood dribble from around the spike that was stuck just below his ribs, warm metal embedded deep in his body. He was still yelling when the Cardinal withdrew her weapon, leaving a hole in his armor that slowly bubbled dark blue. His hands clasped around the impact site, his blood immediately slipping between his fingers.

A halo of orange light flickered around the head of the Cardinal as she readied her next blow for the turian's throat. The intensity of the blue and orange glares mingling and combining in a brilliant incandescence was almost blinding to Garrus, who had to squint and grit his teeth as he tried to behold the fate that was meant for him.

"Die irrelevant," the Cardinal whispered, her arms trembling in anticipation.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a large blur slammed in from the side, completely catching both Garrus and the Cardinal off guard. Something huge and heavy careened into the cyborg, smashing her into a nearby tank, blistering glass and steam as her body dented the apparatus. Two large hands suddenly reached out from behind the Cardinal, gripping nearly all of the cyborg's killing appendages and wrenching them back with a powerful yank, causing them to collide with the remaining limbs fastened to her back! The force of the pull was so great that it completely snapped the servos on all of the Cardinal's arms, rendering them useless in one swift stroke. Crippled and weaponless, the cyborg gave a raging howl as she fought to bring her biotic barriers and her tech shields back online, but a hammering blow to the generators on her back quickly dealt with that issue. The whirring blue dynamos crumpled from the sheer strength of the punch—blue gas and bright coils of electricity cascaded from the cracked housing.

From behind the cyborg, the furious face of Grunt rose above her shoulder. The bulky krogan was bleeding from a couple shallow cuts while his hands continued to grip the Cardinal so hard her chassis was bending.

"You first," he growled.

Grunt was too close to the Cardinal for her to even begin to react to his sudden presence. Not at all gentle, he reached over and violently broke two of the Cardinal's spider-like limbs out of their sockets with loud pops. He discarded the useless appendages and then jerked the cyborg's body so vigorously that she was bodily knocked off of her feet. Her power systems overloaded, the Cardinal fell to the floor, her legs kicking out frantically, while the krogan proceeded to drag her across the ground. The gleaming white automaton surged and wailed as she was disrespectfully hauled through her lab, harsh cuts of lightning emitted from all her sensors in violent pulses as she tried everything in her desperation to make Grunt let go.

The krogan gave a roar, momentarily lit in black and white as the electrical surges raged all around him, a sizzling ganglion upon which a bevy of fatal lightning branches reached out like nerve spirals. Some of these arcing jolts struck the krogan, but were not enough to make him let go.

The Cardinal was screaming helplessly as the krogan dragged her away but there was nothing that could be done to alter her destiny. It had lied in the palm of her hand for a brief moment and she had never realized the significance of that one fateful point in time.

A weary Garrus had sat up as soon as he felt hands on his shoulders—Jack's and Liara's. The two women helped him to his feet. The turian tiredly watched the howling cyborg whip in her futile flagellating stirrings, unable to break free from Grunt's grip. His hand automatically went to his side, which was still weeping blood. He was still mobile—he could still fight. How unfortunate for the Cardinal that all her bluster had amounted to a pitiful failure on her end—the turian paused in sad contemplation for his foe, reflecting that only a being of pure hate and vile would have been able to manifest into a form so contemptuous.

The thrashings from the Cardinal's legs were throwing up vibrant sparks that scintillated through the air in wide arcs. Heavy scraping noises emitted from where her body grated across the ground.

Still dragging the pathetic creature, Grunt reached the large tanks, one of the few whose glass had already cracked and shattered, leaving the interior accessible. A collection of wires and input dongles hung next to the control pillar within the tank—the krogan made a grab for them after he roughly hurled the cyborg into the empty space of the basin. With the speed of a savannah cat and all the coordination of an axolotl, Grunt began jamming in cables into the exposed wire bundles that were situated past the panels of the Cardinal's head. The cyborg had now resorted to begging, screaming, "_No, no!_" as her body was violated again and again by Grunt's brutal assault. With little regard to the correct placement, the krogan stabbed tubes of hormones and violent drugs into fluid ports upon the Cardinal, energy cables into the central nerve mesh, and every other cord he could find was unceremoniously plunged past the cyborg's chest armor and into the artificial sac that held her organs.

A fate shared by her victims. Perhaps the only one she had truly deserved.

Ignoring the weeping splutters of the Cardinal, Grunt hammered on the pillar of the cistern, exposing a limited access control panel. Riddled to the brim with tubes and cables, the cyborg's lone eye flickered weakly, imploring him not to proceed. But the krogan quickly turned all of the settings up to high and disregarded all the warning pop-ups that flared like fireworks on the screen. The scratchy electronic voice of the Cardinal was rapidly increasing in pitch, squeaking out apology after apology as she watched Grunt maneuver to the final activation screen.

He would not be swayed by her pleas. He had no reason to listen.

The vessel gave a tiny beep as the krogan pressed the fateful button and an unstoppable chain reaction occurred.

In a flash, the Cardinal's body suddenly spasmed and went ramrod straight, lying there within the pod. She started to scream, but her voice went so high it went beyond audible ranges for everyone in the room. Garrus and everyone besides Grunt had to cover their ears! The blue light upon the cyborg's head became brighter and brighter, uncontrollably flaring until the bulb inside gave a flicker and burnt out with an abrupt crackle!

The multitude of cords and cables that had been inserted into the cyborg were now quivering along with their victim. Enormous doses of hormones, stimulants, and drugs all poured into the Cardinal's crude circulatory system while an unchecked voltage surged into her damaged and crumpled batteries. The cyborg convulsed as a feeling beyond pain engulfed her entire consciousness. It obliterated her mind, withered her intestines. It erupted the weak folds of flesh trapped underneath the intricate labyrinth of metal, causing her innards to disintegrate. Her brain swam in a throbbing cocktail of Haloperidol, massive doses of insulin, and careless administrations of a sodium amobarbital and LSD mixture. The cybernetics that melded with what little flesh there was malfunctioned and played havoc with the Cardinal's senses. She became psychotic, screaming and screaming so loudly as shapes and fiery shadows came alive around her. Phantoms of her victims, angry and vengeful, come to drag her soul to the purgatory where it belonged. Babbling to the air, she howled her forgiveness to anyone who would listen, but the final insult to her existence was the solemn silence that awaited her. No one was listening.

Lying in a bed of broken glass, looking upwards towards the strobing overhead lights, the Cardinal only had one last moment to perceive the four individuals that were surrounding her intently, silently watching her die, when a cluster of electronics near her brain finally gave out from the overloaded energy, blowing out the side of her head in a quick but filthy detonation.

She soon saw nothing after that.

* * *

"Clear," Roahn gritted as she swerved around the corner, pistol out, finger lightly resting upon the trigger.

The same pitch-black and waxy hallways beckoned, stretching as lobed and creased thoroughfares that reached throughout the maddening dimensions of the ship. Just like before, no one had been waiting in the wings, ready to unexpectedly jump out towards them.

Behind her, Sam trailed, his limp slowly eroding as he traveled.

"Clear, clear, clear," he yammered mostly to himself. "What else is new? Apart from the odd machine we come across, the halls of this whole fucking ship are deserte—"

His sentence was interrupted when a zapping noise quickly resounded, startling the two of them. A thin red barrier suddenly emitted between Roahn and Sam, dividing the hallway with its transparent and fizzing face.

"_Yow!_" Sam yelped as he jumped back on instinct. "That nearly cut me in half!"

Roahn whirled to face him, the glow from her blue visor overcoming the light of her eyes through the angry and churning barrier that now separated them. Her heart started to furiously pound. That barrier had gone off at a suspicious time, as though as either it had been primed to activate as soon as she crossed an invisible threshold. Or it could have been from a reason more insidious—Roahn could not stop thinking that she was being watched, even now.

She scanned the edges of the hall where the barrier was currently blazing, searching for something on her side that did not exist.

"Can you find a control panel to shut this off?" she asked.

The doctor gave a less-than-confident examination of his own side, unsure exactly of where he would find such a panel, if it was even within access.

"Roahn, I can't see shit over here," he admitted.

The quarian agonized as a multitude of conundrums came to mind. It had taken her so long to make it this far through the convoluted labyrinth of the _Morningtide_. If she delayed further, Aleph and her father could slip right through her fingers! If she tried to find a way to double back, to link up with Sam… then such a detour could spell her defeat from her hesitant dawdling.

Before she could say anything, Sam then backpedaled and made an aggravated waving motion towards the commander.

"The hell with it. Go on ahead, Roahn! I'll find a way around!"

Helpless, Roahn edged right up to the barrier, careful not to put her hands upon it lest she would be knocked back by a powerful electric shock.

"Sam, it could take you hours to get back to me!" she protested anyway, her concern momentarily overriding her own wants and desires.

But the human surprised her by shaking his head. He knew the score just as well as she did—their individual duties were not as esoteric as she had initially thought.

"Hours that will be wasted if you concern yourself with me! There's no time. I'll double back, try to find another way to you. Just gut that bastard the first chance you get if you see him before I do!"

_With my bare hands, if it comes to it_, she nearly said, but Sam had already taken off, intent on making the most of what little time they had. With nothing else keeping her locked in place, Roahn continued down the hallway, finding the remainder of the pathway ahead to be remarkably straight, almost like it stretched on for a mile, an infinitude of black.

Her footsteps were muted clacks as she proceeded at a light jog down the hall. There were no more intersections for her to lose her way in. No infernal barriers projecting themselves as obstacles to overcome. Her breath rang in her helmet as she kept her gaze locked forward, hands tightly gripped around her pistol so hard the knuckles on her right hand cracked.

The act of making her way down the corridor became almost routine to the point where Roahn was nearly caught off guard when she reached the final blast door, almost running headlong into it. She paused before opening it—there was something about this place that seemed off to her. As though tendrils of blackness were creeping through the cracks of the door to stretch out and consume her—ghosts that inhabited her thoughts. There was a definite finality present here, a sense that somehow, she was _expected_.

The door here was unlocked, waiting for a simple gesture to slide it open. No need for Roahn to input her trusty cracking code to bludgeon the mainframe into cooperating. She flirted with hesitation, perhaps not long enough, and sent over the command for it to part. It did so silently, on clean rails, exposing a large room beyond.

Roahn stepped through without a second thought.

The floor here was dark stone. Black, the color of oil, and dully reflective. As the door slid shut behind Roahn, she became completely encased in darkness. She activated the light on her pistol to guide her way, but this was a wasted effort as the shadows were so thick around her that it seemed like it had its own weight, causing her to _push_ forward with every step, making every meter gained a significant exertion.

Only the throb of her heartbeat and the precarious rhythm of her breathing were the only noises discernable in this cold room. Her entire body shivered, her suit being unable to protect her from the sudden chill that had unexpectedly overcome her. Roahn kept her body perched on a razor's edge, eyes scrambling back and forth to perceive even the faintest flicker of movement in this dark place. The quarian had the notion that creatures of all shapes and sizes were all waiting to leap out and tear her to pieces just inches away, the heavy shadows making them all invisible.

There was nothing to direct her where to go. She could barely make out her own forearm. All she could do was gingerly set one foot in front of the other, listen to the click as her boot made contact with stone, and repeat the process.

Hellish whispers surrounded her, hissing in foreign tongues. Roahn had to clench her eyes to shut the noise out, unsure if the voices were real or figments of her imagination.

_**I**__ṣṣabtûma __**i**__na __**b**__âb __**b**__ît __**e**__muti_

Voices of the damned, Roahn reasoned as she fearfully froze for a second before continuing. _Block them out. Block them out!_

And after about a minute of this fragile and timid exploration, the quarian soldier could make out… there! The lightest glimmer of a reddish hue about twenty meters ahead. It was so faint that it almost seemed like a mirage to her eyes, shapes and colors being distorted within her lens from the absence of tangible objects, but the more she focused on the seeping light, the more she was convinced that it was real.

_**T**__ocuilitla __**t**__euaqui, __**m**__achiyotla __**t**__etemoya, __**a**__huia __**o**__yatonac, __**y**__ahuia __**o**__yatonac __**u**__ia, __**m**__achiyotla __**t**__etemoya_

Those voices again. A gravity well seemed to be forming in the center of Roahn's body, thrumming with limitless power. There was a decisive fatigue that was threatening to grip her muscles, turning her to jelly in this critical moment. She approached the light, slowly realizing that the color of the distant shafts was none other than a deep blood-red.

A color of life. Of death.

_**W**__ayyārem '__**e**__ṯ-'__**a**__dereṯ '__**ē**__lîyâû '__**ă**__šer __**n**__āfəlâ __**m**__ē'ālāyw __**w**__ayyāšāḇ __**w**__ayy__a__'ămōḏ '__**a**__l-śəfaṯ __**h**__ayyarədēn_

Sickening pulsations, though incorporeal, felt like they were slamming into Roahn's subconsciousness, battering her into submission. This room held a fierce rage, one that rivaled her own.

The quarian finally reached the oblong figures of red illumination on the floor, now realizing that the glow was surging in from a tall window to her left, slotted by two columns that produced three tall rectangles of blaring and powerful light. The vivid crimson that bled its way into the room, now filling the young woman's whole sight with the color, was produced by the distant explosions of dying ships—the battle in the nebula! She saw them crumple apart, become taken by fiery clouds that erupted in nearly-silent puffs, billowing shafts of fire and destruction just outside the window.

_**C**__or __**m**__achinans __**c**__ogitationes __**p**__essimas, __**p**__edes __**v**__eloces __**a**__d __**c**__urrendum __**i**__n __**m**__alum_

A low and mechanical roar reverberated in Roahn's chest as a yellow fireball billowed from the left of the window and traveled all the way across its line of sight—an asari cruiser had just met its end at the hands of some well-placed torpedoes that had penetrated its kinetic barriers. Roahn had to throw up a hand to protect her from the glare.

As the yellow died to a burnt orange and finally to an arterial red could the quarian see a person silhouetted just in front of the window, atop a long but shallow stone staircase, not having been there a moment ago. The eruption rippled off of a reflective helmet, taking the visage of destruction and wearing it as their face. An empty fusiform area, chameleonic, lacking any distinctions or recollections of their own origins. They had their thick and armored arms patiently behind their back, their breathing soundless in the near-vacuum of the room. The heavy cloak they wore, pinned to their upper arms by their shoulder guards, did not give a singular flap. They were statuesque, eternal.

The whispers receded but not before seemingly flowing around the figure like water. The low and foreign chattering soon melted away to vanish into the darkness, fleeing from the inherent violence that thrummed between the two people in the room.

The shadow of the man rippled in Roahn's mask. Her own breathing was tight but controlled. Any aches or pains she had been previously feeling now mercifully rippled away, leaving just the barest and purest expressions of her concentration remaining. The entirety of who she was thrummed beneath the surface of Roahn's suit and skin. The past held no meaning for her anymore. All that mattered was the promise of an era where her victory over Aleph would soon be hurled onto a terminal path, unable to be diverted. Her reign was ascendant, even now. This was true destiny.

Mouth dry, she slowly climbed the stairs, towards the powerful figure. Towards the end of all things.

Towards the future.

* * *

**A/N: And with that, the end is nigh. Be sure to hit that "subscribe" button for more... wait, sorry, that's my YouTube pitch. Never mind, you're all good!**

**But I would certainly like to see a review or two to let me know how I'm doing ;)**

**Playlist:**

**Quadruped Scuffle (Raucous Theme)**  
**"Terraforming Bay"**  
**Jed Kurzel**  
**Alien: Covenant (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Cardinal Battle I - Indignant Anger**  
**"The Darklands"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Cardinal Battle II - Stab and Expiration**  
**"Terminator Tangle"**  
**Marco Beltrami**  
**Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**The Staircase (Aleph's Theme)  
"Helheim"  
Andy LaPlegua  
Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	33. Chapter 33: The Monolith

"_Still no controller support for PC. Sorry."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Morningtide_

Blood roared in her ears. Her eyes were hopelessly locked ahead. A chill slithered through her lungs as if she had suddenly inhaled a winter air.

This was it.

Several long and squat steps of the staircase still remained before the quarian, her last obstacle to traverse until she would rise to meet Aleph. Face-to-face. Footsteps clicked loudly in the magnitude of the gallery, opaque and corrupted by a dusky eeriness that was Cimmerian in concept. The firestorm of the naval battle silently raged and billowed behind the cybernetic demon, rippling in titanic waves just beyond the three columnar windows. Clouds of red, yellow, and orange hues blasted the drab of the dark nebula apart, blowing holes of white fire into rayless space for light to finally permeate.

Breathing heavily, Roahn slowly raised her pistol, gripping it in two hands just like her father had taught her. Aleph was unwavering underneath its gaze, oddly calm as the quarian approached him.

The quarian refused to let a spike of fear pierce her chest as she beheld her completely protected foe. Aleph's armor glistened underneath the unsteady and meteoric flashes from the battle outside. Scarless and full of luster, he was the epitome of a shining warrior, encased head to toe in his thick combat armor. Heavily guarded boots the color of dusk. Bulky gloves lined with dense metal. Cumbersome yet elegant armor, a light collar rimming his neck, and no insignias marring his front.

And, of course, the _pièce de résistance_: Aleph's mirrored helmet, shining atop his head like a precious jewel.

It took the visages of his enemies and placed them squarely in the forefront. A face-off against one's own shadow. Their reflection. A dark caricature of the person they could very well have been. It reflected pain, anger, all the things Roahn knew quite well and even embraced. The man in front of her was the architect of that fear. It was time for the design to fall to her hands, the quarian decided.

Once she had reached the final step did Roahn firm her stance, putting one foot slightly in front of the other as she maneuvered the sights on her weapon to slowly have the middle lobe on the top of the pistol be aligned with Aleph's chest. Her finger slipped over the trigger, primed and ready. She was still tired from her fight with Raucous, but no jitters coursed through her and threatened to spoil her shot.

She took a needed breath before she spoke. Her eyes diminished to stark slashes, all rage holding back the fear.

"If you don't want me to open up a hole in your head, release my father and tell your forces out there to stand—"

Before Roahn could complete the sentence, Aleph suddenly twisted his wrist, an azure glow coating his fingers. There was a brutal yank and the quarian yelped as her pistol was _ripped_ from her fingers by the precisely placed biotic pull, sailing straight through the air to land perfectly in Aleph's armored palm with a delicate clacking noise.

Immediately, Roahn moved to pull her submachine gun free, but her foe simply waggled a finger in his free hand, the same dark energy pulsating from the digit. As soon as she had brought this weapon up to bear, there was a fierce _hiss-snap!_ The casing on the weapon suddenly jerked as a hole was blown into the side of it—the onboard electronics had suffered a meltdown! Plastic and metallic gun parts littered the floor in front of her. An acrid smell wafted from a cracked heat sink.

Weaponless, Roahn remained ghastly silent as she let the pieces from the ruined submachine gun tumble freely from her fingers. All she had left now to defend herself was her omni-sword. Instantly, she thought about mounting a manic charge at the man, but Roahn was shrewd enough to know that an attack with a blade would fare poorly against a foe with a firearm. A firearm that Aleph now possessed. He could take her out right now if he so desired. Her kinetic barriers could withstand a few well-placed pistol shots—she surmised that Aleph's aim would be well-placed, indeed.

But Aleph did not seem to be interested in the gun all that much. He simply maneuvered it around in his hands without looking down before he slid it into a hidden holster rather casually. His hands were now empty once more. Open and inviting.

"**I'm afraid I have no interest in complying**," Aleph said, his voice taking on a deeper and seething reverberation in this room. "**But then, I doubt you would have ever expected that of me. Am I mistaken?**"

The two, their dark contours blotted out by the rippling explosions just outside, gazed at one another forebodingly. The tall and ominous cyborg. The upright and proud quarian. Embodiments of emotions in their purest forms. Manifestations of hatred and terror. A rainbow halo sizzled through the room, winking upon the reflective surfaces of their armor for the barest of moments.

Roahn slowly shook her head, frantically trying to materialize a new plan in her mind. "No…" she grimaced. "You're not."

Aleph gave his helmeted head a singular bob, no pale intake of breath apparent.

"**In some ways, it is regrettable that it has come to this**," he partially turned to the window, a tender gesticulation. "**Brother against brother. Friend against friend. Allies turning against each other for reasons they don't fully comprehend because conspirators have been residing within their ranks. This is what the disintegration of a cold war looks like, Roahn'Shepard. What you are witnessing today is the birth of a new civil war. One that will span the galaxy instead of being confined to sector skirmishes.**"

"A short-lived war," Roahn edged forward with a growl. "I kill you… and this all ends today."

She could see Aleph's shoulders barely ripple with a quiet laugh. Now his helmet turned back towards her fully, a crescent of an explosion arcing off the edge of the chromed face.

"**An admirable hope. Though… sadly… unobtainable**."

Roahn seemed to inflate as she seethed. She levelled a finger towards the windows.

"Bullshit! Every second out there your army gets whittled down more and more! You're _finished_, Aleph. It's over. Not even your Monolith can save you now, not when the entirety of galactic civilization has risen up to face you."

Aleph was back to studying the battle from the safety of his viewpoint. His hands returned to behind his back once again as his mirrored helmet encapsulated the conflict within—a contained shell of devastation threatening to break free from its confines.

"**They haven't **_**all**_** risen**," he mused. "**Not yet. You've only brought a fraction of its might**."

Behind her mask, Roahn became flustered. '_All'?_ What the hell was he talking about? Was he trying to trip her up? Make her lose face?

She recovered in time to respond. "It was enough to beat what _you_ had."

"**Neither of us will find that out until much later. This… is only the beginning**."

"You're deluded," Roahn ruefully shook her head.

"**And **_**you're**_** ignorant**," Aleph calmly countered. "**But I plan on correcting that in short order. At some point, the both of us will realize what truly constitutes a galactic civilization. What you see out there today… that is not a civilization. It is a developing system, incomplete. Divided from the whole, it does not function as a model for our culture. And it is 'our' culture because it is the one we unconsciously choose to inhabit. Disparate people, disparate races, coming together for the purpose of elevating themselves in strength, in wisdom. A natural pursuit of enlightenment. For is it not our manifest destiny to find a true integration—for everyone to embody one civilization? There are some that find such a quality—uniformity—to embody a perfect system. To that matter, let me pose a question: what do **_**you**_** believe is the key to a perfect civilization?**"

Behind Aleph, Roahn lurched, caught off guard by the question. She was hesitant in her response, unsure if she was being toyed with, that this was all a game to the cyborg and there was a trick to his query. Unwilling to play, the quarian chose to remain silent, defiantly locking her jaw shut.

Aleph's head tilted, disappointed by the lack of an answer. "_**Diversity**_**, Roahn'Shepard. A civilization is dependent on its diversity**."

The one-armed, armored quarian could not give a damn about logical theatrics at this time and she slowly made to plod forward with menacing intent. However, Roahn stopped herself cold when she noticed a threatening aura slowly emanate around Aleph, a deadly outline of biotics. Her little move had not escaped his attention.

She could not act unless she had heard what Aleph had to say, otherwise he would find violent ways to subdue her, was what his silent message encapsulated.

"**It is not the insularity of a nation that determines its longevity, but the opposite. A homogenized population, exposed to a single school of thought, is an inflexible system. It cannot adapt to outside forces and does not benefit from the malleability of a hybridized and diverse population. Society pertains not only to the people, but also the ideals that embody it. A successful civilization is inherent on variance. Something that, if you recall, the Protheans were lacking in their cycle that ultimately led to their destruction.**"

Roahn could only scoff at what she perceived was arrogance.

"And you think we haven't avoided that?"

"**Not to the extent that is required for survival. This cycle nearly achieved that goal, but after the Reaper War, it seemed that old habits truly died hard. Each race retreated amongst themselves under the guise of overseeing their own reconstruction. But that was an excuse for them to become more isolated, to paradoxically come to the conclusion that it was their own efforts that was responsible for their victory, providing the impression that the need to complete the consolidation with their allies was unnecessary. The momentum towards diversity had been lost all those years ago. The growth of this 'civilization' has been stalled.**"

He raised a hand, gentle in his movements, and slowly clenched a gigantic hand until he made a heavy fist.

"**I intend to restart it**."

That crushing feeling was imparting itself on Roahn's chest again. She took a panicked gulp, but quickly realized it was her imagination playing havoc with her body. Still, it felt like something was lowering itself onto her ribcage, driving all her breath out and grinding her bones into powder. In the face of such malice, what hope did she have of standing up to it?

But she dug her feet into the metal floor, looking up at the baleful giant.

"Then you're a fool," she said, surprising herself with her own confidence. "It's like you said: we've united in the face of destruction once before. We can unite again. We're not as damned as you think we are. This civilization can endure."

"**Civilizations rise and fall**," Aleph shrugged. "**An inevitability. It is a process that is not exclusive to any one race. It is a particular hallmark of humanity, dating back to our first true civilization: the Mesopotamians. Is your intention to repeat the mistakes of the past, to let everything be overthrown by your own hubris? Or… would you confront the rot from within, pivot to face it, and set a new course to evade devastation?**"

"I think I'm confronting that rot right now."

"**Then you're missing the point. I am merely a symptom, not the cause of this civilized decay. Unlike the Mesopotamians, who worshipped deities that represented forces of nature, I embody those forces now. I have the ability to bring us all onto the right path, to the true beginning that will define us all as a collective and varied race! That is why I selected the name 'Aleph' for myself as a codename when I was still in the Alliance. An aleph marks the beginning of the first human alphabet, the Phoenician abjad. It is still utilized as the aboriginal letter for many languages in use today. And what better way to serve as a reminder for a new start than to take it on as a title?**"

Off in the distance, another capital ship broke into a billion pieces, spewing metallic innards, frozen gases, and fiery billows as fighters darted around the wreckage like gnats. There had to have been hundreds of people on board. Now they were all dead, joining the thousands who had been blown to smithereens to become part of the cosmic ash cloud.

Aleph tilted his head toward the window, though he still maintained eye contact with Roahn.

"**A shame, but if there's one thing that never fails to grab the galaxy's attention, it is a widespread conflict. It draws the gaze of the people—moths to the flame—like no other trauma because it is the only thing that potentially affects them all. They cannot afford to be ambivalent. They feel they need to take a side. A war is no place for a centrist**."

The man looked downright menacing as a ring of fire outside the window appeared to engulf his profile. Sheets of turbulent and burning debris spiraled on by, riding on ignited tendrils of flammable gas.

Upon the polished floor, Roahn advanced a step. The vacuum in her ears had retreated, leaving a muffled roar behind. She did not care that she was practically unarmed. The last vestiges of her bravery were now out in force, erecting a pained shield before her reserves were sapped. All that mattered now was finding her moment buried within Aleph's trite ideologies and lashing out to remove the head of the decay that had spread to the far arms of the galaxy. Maybe then her conscience could find a small modicum of peace, finally.

"What you have in mind is tantamount to a holocaust," Roahn growled. "Killing millions of people just to make a point? All for the purpose of obtaining attention? You're completely insane. I've had enough of all this crap of you hopping around the galaxy, trying to find the materials to complete your _precious_ Monolith. You won't activate it today. I'll see to it that neither you nor that thing make it off this ship intact. You know that I'll do whatever it takes."

What happened next was not the sort of reaction that Roahn had been expecting from Aleph. She had actually anticipated another veiled threat from the man, or a segue into a new tirade to explain the righteousness of his actions, or even a launch upon her to lock themselves in combat, desperate to protect the sanctity of his plan.

What she did not expect was Aleph _laughing_.

It was an ugly laugh, one that came out as a reptilian slither. The laugh was quiet, but substantial in that it seemed to permeate every pore of the quarian—the noise stabbed at her like tiny needles, chilling her to her core. Suddenly, Roahn felt true fear crash upon the breakers of her mind. Something was very wrong here.

"**And you were so confident, too…**" he rasped in glee.

Speechless and confused, Roahn faltered in place, her head helplessly turning as if she would be able to peer past the nebulous veil that had seemingly been cast around her for the past year, blinding her to the sad and simple truth.

A truth that Aleph took joy in revealing to her.

"**Did you truly think that I would have allowed you to make it this far without ensuring that my decades of machinations were set in stone, Roahn'Shepard? Our being engaged in a discourse or a duel at this moment was not a delaying tactic on your part, because there was nothing to delay.**"

A quiet beat of silence resounded. The chrome of Aleph's helmet suddenly became stark, utterly featureless. He towered over the fearful quarian in the growing shadow, brimming with malevolence.

"**The Monolith was activated hours before you even arrived in the system**."

* * *

_Elsewhere…_

[DETECTING RAPID SIGNAL IMPULSE. COMPENSATING. FILTERING TO STRONGEST ORIGIN POINTS. SIGMA GAMMA 5-4. ENABLE. ENABLE. ENABLE.]

"…_Citadel Control, confirm your last… repeat—"_

"…—_re you receiving? We've had a loss in comms, please resp—"_

"…_trying again. We're not picking up any frequencies around the—"_

"…_major connection loss, Citadel Control. What is your status? You got cut—"_

"…_an accident? We're seeing warning beacons all around the station. Can you confirm—"_

"…_no good. Station's dark. Can't raise anyone. Do we have—"_

"…_my god. It's all gone. Did you see that? It's gone—"_

"…_lost visual contact. No, it's not solar flare activity. Saw it with my own damn eyes—"_

"…_where is it? Coordinates place the station there but we're not seeing—"_

"…_my wife is there. She was there. I… I don't know what to do—"_

"…_the Citadel? Where is the Citadel?"_

[TRANSMISSION VOLUME APPROACHING BANDWIDTH LIMIT. SHUTTING DOWN TO COMPENSATE. RESTART SYSTEM ONCE 10.0 MINUTES ELAPSED.]

[SHUTDOWN ENABLED.]

* * *

Panic. Pure, bubbling panic.

Roahn stood there, slack-jawed, fingers limp. All her inhibitions fled in that one moment for her unbridled emotions to take over her body. Spiraling into a void of helplessness, Roahn could only blink—the only movement she had enough energy to perform—as she stared across at the still form of Aleph.

Explosions continued to curl and fold outside, heedless of the damnation that the cyborg's words had cut across. The blind fighting the blind, clueless as to where the real prize had been stationed all this time.

And Roahn had been the one to lead them all astray.

"That's… not possible," she moaned.

"**No?**" Aleph simply retorted.

He then clapped his hands together and slowly spread them apart—a green hologram in between his palms slowly grew in size as he brought his arms wider and wider until he had amassed a large-scale representation of the enormous station that anyone in the galaxy would recognize right off the bat. Aleph gave the hologram a slight toss, positioning it between himself and Roahn—the slowly rotating arms of the station cut aquamarine slashes across the curvature of his helmet, creating shards of marine light upon his face.

Tiny squares of random camera feeds blipped around the facsimile. They showed dark avenues, lifeless buildings. Impact craters and gouges in the streets, belching blue fire—out of control skycars careening into the station.

And people. Hundreds and hundreds of people. No, thousands. _Millions_, even. All lying on the ground, motionless. Black puddles pooled from their heads, every one of them. Aliens of all sizes and genders. Even the children. They had all fallen victim to a shared fate, a simultaneous conclusion. Whether or not it had been painless was difficult to tell—but their eyes hinted at an unexpected startlement, as if they had met their ends with only a scant denial, without even knowing what was happening.

Aleph raised a hand, his body seemingly glowing from the light of the hologram.

"**Witness the inherent possibilities, so that you might see the execution of my intent. The Monolith has performed its duty exactly as intended. Exactly as I engineered. An energy ripple, an instantaneous death, coursing through implant pathways all at once. The entire population of the Citadel… thirteen million people… extinguished and eradicated. The Tranquility has come to pass. The demonstration has now been provided to the galaxy**."

Roahn wanted to sink to her knees in despair. This could not be happening! She felt sick, like she was going to throw up. The heavy whispers that she had pushed out in the beginning were now back with a vengeance, holding her mind in an iron grip. Phantom pain seared upon her arm, a new flare-up. The quarian was wobbling on her feet, on the verge of becoming catatonic.

_Impossible. The Monolith wasn't ready. How could he have done this?_

"No… no, no, no, no! This… this wasn't supposed to happen. You _couldn't_ have… you couldn't…"

A haze of shadows seemed to float amongst her enemy, threatening to shroud him from view. Aleph began to walk around the simulacrum, barely paying it any attention as he focused all of his attention upon Roahn, merciless and steadfast.

"**Did you think that your idea of a victory was destined by the strength of your efforts alone? Was it because of how self-righteous you were in your duties? Or did you think a triumph was what you deserved from that patronymic alias you utilize as a brand? Afraid of not filling the shoes worth of the 'Shepard' name?**"

Roahn could not conjure a response, even if she wanted to. Her throat had become parched, desert-like, and her breathing had escalated to a rate nearing hyperventilation. It hurt to swallow, to stand, to exist. She hunched over, slightly walking backwards, an involuntary retreat.

Aleph was now walking around Roahn, appraising her with a child-like curiosity as he folded his hands behind his back once more.

"**It is **_**done**_**, Roahn'Shepard. Thirteen million souls gone. The Citadel has claimed its final victims from the cycles of violence. I have single-handedly ended a loop which began during the primordial aeons of the universe**."

The quarian withered underneath the rotating gaze that Aleph provided. She trembled and cowered, clasping her hands over the sides of her helmet in an effort to block out his terrible voice.

"Shut up. _Shut up!_ Stop lying to me! You're a monster! A psychopath!"

"**I am what this galaxy needs**," Aleph said. "**And I have taken the largest leap so that others may pick up the smaller steps. The Citadel was simply the most poignant target for me to demonstrate the power that I have acquired. And that station certainly had quite the sordid history that made such a demonstration… suitable. A tool, inherently, created by the Reapers as a backdoor for them to utilize at the end of their harvesting cycles. Utilized as the Catalyst to tear ourselves free from our predetermined fates. But in between that, it was seen as the center of the galactic government, a place for a council to convene and legislate, to hold dominion over the ones that would submit to a universal code.**"

Aleph then leaned over, bringing his vocabulator close to Roahn's head so he could deliver a calamitous hiss.

"**The Citadel was nothing but an experiment. A **_**failed**_** experiment**."

Shaking hands removed themselves from her head, leaving crumpled sections of Roahn's _sehni_ underneath. She dared to rotate her head ever so slightly, quaking as she perceived Aleph continue his slow rotation around her once more.

"You… don't know what you've just done…"

"**I assure you**," Aleph was resolute, "**I have had plenty of time to mull my decision over. It is one that I take no pleasure in, but it had to be carried out**."

"You… fucking… bastard."

The cyborg ignored the insult.

"**The Citadel was a failure because it touted itself as a symbol of unity, where all races would come together and share in a democratic process. But that was a lie. The counselors on the Citadel were unable to fully shake from their partisan tendencies. No one was able to set aside their biases and adopt a more magnanimous position to aid the galactic whole, instead choosing to look after their own races first and foremost. It was that type of willful indifference that led to this cycle being so unprepared to push back against the initial Reaper assault. Even when your father presented the Council with information of their return, he was rebuffed time and again. Perhaps he would feel some sympathy for this tearing down of old institutions.**"

Roahn's hands slowly balled into fists.

"My father… would never agree with you about anything!"

"**I suppose he might feel a subconscious understanding with me, borne from an underlying frustration with the Council, the people he swore to protect, not heeding his warnings. Those systems, the Council's mindset, only degraded further once the dust from the war finally settled. They found relief in choosing to believe in a fallacy, that no threats would dare impart themselves on the galaxy's civilized order again, not after everyone had united to join forces. They thought that no threat that rivaled the Reapers existed out there. They grew lax, complacent, only interested in returning everything to the status quo. That complacency allowed a rampant rise in the inequality of wealth, the establishment of private militaries, and the discouraging acceptance of a society far lesser than what could have been achieved!**"

Aleph took a pause to let Roahn absorb all that before he continued.

"**The final failure of the Council, Roahn'Shepard, is from their refusal to usher in and safeguard a progressive civilization, from their facilitating of the growth of oligarchies and border warfare. A failed symbol like that must be destroyed—such destruction will serve as a catalyst itself, to allow people to break from the filtered reality that has been bestowed unto them, to get them to think for themselves and realize, to their everlasting shame, that peace… was never a guarantee. That the mistakes of their leaders had brought a new cycle of violence to them at a time when they had every reason to hope again. And now… from the deaths of all the people on the Citadel… that hope has been destroyed along with them**."

The quarian suddenly took a gigantic lunge towards Aleph as he briefly turned his back, her omni-sword shooting out in a wide extension, blazing and thrumming with power. The crackling point of her weapon sank towards the small of Aleph's back, Roahn's face locked in a silent snarl, but before she could make contact, the cyborg quickly blinked out of existence with a stuttering cerulean wink. Her attack slashed through empty air and she staggered, off balance.

A few feet away, Aleph's form flickered into reality, several tendrils of turquoise light streaming around a glowing pylon that had extended from his right forearm. He tilted his head at Roahn as if to wonder if she had truly expected to get the drop on him.

The enormous figure then lifted a hand and shunted his palm forth in retaliation, sending out a wave of biotic energy that slammed into Roahn, who was still recovering from her failed attempt on him. The arc caught Roahn around the chest and slammed her upon the ground. The back of her helmet bounced on the stone floor—everything flashed white for a split second. Burns in her vision made sizzling craters.

"**Your impulsiveness was what doomed you the first time we met**," Aleph called, an even tone still inhabiting his words. "**I would have thought you had learned your lesson by now**."

Groaning, Roahn staggered to her feet, her world tilting and in double. The omni-sword around her arm had deactivated—she clawed her hands on the ground to find purchase and wobbled upright, unsure of what to do.

"You…" she gasped, "…just doomed yourself. What you just did… anyone who you haven't paid off yet will be coming for you. They'll want retaliation. They'll want to see you dead, like I do."

Magnanimously, Aleph lifted his arms.

"**And will I welcome their efforts. The free galaxy, united again against a common foe. It will be a sight for you to behold, Roahn'Shepard, for it will take quite an effort to overthrow the limitations they had handicapped themselves with. And to think, it only took the deaths of thirteen million rather than the trillions of lives the Reapers had claimed in order to provoke a vengeful response from the galaxy. The scalpel approach, rather than the sledgehammer one favored by the Reapers**."

"Am I supposed to believe you will stop at those thirteen million you slaughtered?" Roahn nearly shouted.

"**The difference is that I am not a machine. Extinction does not improve the universe. But forcing everyone to confront their past mistakes and correct them? That is where wisdom is born. It is the key to unlocking our better natures, our pantheon of sophistication**."

An excruciatingly long period of silence followed—Roahn had run out of ripostes for Aleph's justifications. A cold feeling clung to her throat as she intrinsically knew these were not the ramblings of a madman that had been hastily thought up on the spot. They were the methodologies of a calculating mind, one that had removed emotion from his decisions to craft the most sinister plan the galaxy had ever seen.

She felt tired. More than anything, she wanted to wake up and realize that this had all been a terrible nightmare. She just wanted this to end, for it to all be over now.

"But…" she remembered, "this shouldn't have been possible. You hadn't completed the Monolith the last time we met. Was that all a lie?"

To his left, Aleph diverted his gaze, as though he could pierce the purity of the shadows embedded there. A low rumble shuddered through the stark hall—the battle was growing closer.

"**I knew where the final pieces resided**," he finally said. "**But I did not have them in my grasp until the minutes after we had parted. The last fragments of the puzzle have indeed been assembled; my conglomerate manifested. The completion of my search was finalized with the participation of an unwilling subject.**"

The cyborg made a sweeping gesture to the side of the room, Roahn's gaze tracking the limb. A light suddenly shone upon that section, driving out the dark to bring about a new sight, as terrible and unimaginable as the ones that had preceded it.

A titanic block of obsidian devoid of markings or scripture upon its face, glistening amongst dire conditions. A column of dense metal, utterly flawless and throbbing with a savage energy underneath its polished face. The source of the perverse whispers Roahn had heard upon first entering the chamber. The Monolith, presented to the quarian for the very first time.

But that was not where her gaze finally lingered.

At the base of the Monolith, an upright torso draped in the eternal dusk slouched. A person had been forcibly restrained against it! Black chains snaked around their body, pinning them to the metal pillar, making a terrible crackling noise as they clanked against the enormous device. Their head was drooping, listless. Flickers from exploding ships briefly caught the features of their face—a bloody and pale mask, covered in cuts and lacerations.

It was Shepard.

The floor seemed to drop out from under Roahn's feet as her already damaged mind reeled from such a devastating blow. In all her years, the only thing the quarian had ever wanted most was to have a life that was normal. A dutiful father. A caring mother. As boring of a routine that could possibly be imagined. At every turn, she had been denied this one thing, this one selfish urge that she harbored for herself. In the face of such antagonism, she had sworn to do everything she could to protect what little bonds of normality she had left, but even those were in danger of being severed.

Shepard moaned pitifully as he was uncontrollably pressed against the face of the Monolith. Even with the terrible lighting, Roahn could now see dark splotches slowly trickle their way over the shining surface of the device, stemming from her father's body. It looked like a liquid, thick and viscous, defying gravity as it surged up the Monolith, dribbling along shapeless stems and pathways, creating a labyrinthian diagram that emanated a purpose but remained inconclusively abstract to Roahn. The liquid simmered and broiled across the obelisk before it mysteriously disappeared, as though the device was sucking the fluid within itself, a natural well played in reverse.

Roahn soon staggered as she realized what she was seeing with her own eyes. Blood. Her father's blood was what was being sapped from his body. The Monolith was seeping Shepard's life and fusing it within its core!

The quarian unleashed a horrified scream.

* * *

Hell and damnation!

Sam would normally describe himself as a rather unflappable fellow, but after wandering through this damn ship for fifteen minutes and not having stumbled across any landmarks of note, he was starting to get rather frazzled. It was not like he was completely lost—he had a mini-map on his omni-tool to guide his direction—but it had been set prior to their incursion to only display breadcrumbs, which meant that all Sam could see on his tiny display was a mess of white dots all congregated in a massive scramble.

Goddamn it, why had none of them thought to take more thorough scans of the ship beforehand?!

The man had practically abandoned all caution as he jogged down the endless array of corridors on the _Morningtide_. He was so hopelessly turned around that he was starting to get dizzy from all of the times he had to course correct around a corner. He was no longer concerned about running headlong into any more hostile forces, either out of a misplaced certitude in his mindset or from an exhausted nonchalance to the severity of his situation. His limp garnered from the fight with Raucous had pretty much faded—having only received a bruise from his brief interaction. Lucky him.

A glimmer of green light caught the exhausted man's attention a minute later as he made it to the next intersection—a door! Finally, a deviation from monotony. He charged toward it, intrigued on seeing what was beyond its face.

In the next second upon it opening, Sam wished that he had been a little more patient. Dark gray gunbarrels caught his eye, directed straight towards him. A surge of adrenaline spiked, priming his muscles.

"_AAAARRGGGHH!_" he roared as he dove towards the ground as rifle bursts tore through the air above his head. Sam did not bother firing back—truthfully, he had forgotten about his own weapons in that moment.

Curiously, the firing abruptly stopped, and Sam soon realized that he had not been hit. Wondering if fate had intervened and now was the time to turn to religion, he gave himself a once-over before he finally looked up at his would-be assailants.

His mouth turned into a scowl as his face presumably turned the shade of a ripe beet.

"Motherfucker!" he bellowed as he stumbled to his feet, nearly spitting in the sheepish faces of Garrus and his squad. "You nearly took my head off!"

"I'm sorry!" Garrus quickly situated his gun away from the irate human, but Sam was nearly foaming at the mouth as he was reaching out to grasp the turian by the neck. "I thought you were the enemy!"

"We have beacons in our armor, you infantile bastard!" Sam raged as he wagged his arm in the turian's face. "Or were you using this opportunity to finally get rid of me like you've always wanted?!"

Garrus had to duck and back away from Sam's somewhat half-hearted blows. He winced as a sharp pain in his side—the Cardinal's previous blow—ebbed forth from his quick movements. "In case you haven't noticed, this ship is screwing up our electronics! We can't see anything on our mini-maps! It's not exactly the most navigable of vessels, either. It was an accident, okay?"

Sam finally calmed down and doubled over to catch his breath, shooting Garrus a sharp glare every now and then.

"Look," the turian sheepishly lifted a hand, "I really am sorry. I apologize for nearly blowing your head off."

The broad-shouldered human merely narrowed his eyes.

"Fine… fine. I accept your apology… but you still hurt my feelings."

"Your feelings will heal," Garrus rasped, not in the mood for putting up with Sam's bullshit. "Where's everyone else?"

The harried doctor pointed down the way he had just come. "We found Korridon but he was in bad shape. Sagan also got roughed up by a cyborg—"

"—yeah," Jack momentarily interrupted. "We just had a time dealing with one of those, too."

"—so James took both of them back to the shuttle," Sam continued while narrowing his eyes at Jack for her abrupt interjection. "I was with Roahn for a bit before we got separated by an… an inconvenient force field, or something. I've been trying to find an alternate route to her ever since."

Caustic barrages of bass notes hurtled down the hallway, vibrating the floor at everyone's feet. They all turned towards the locus of the sound, down a particular pathway that branched off from the main avenue.

"Sounds like that's where one of the gun batteries is located," Garrus mused as he tried to hide a grimace as he pressed a hand over his wound. Medi-gel was not stemming the flow of blood, though it came out as a slow trickle. "Good place for us to get some insurance."

"Blow this thing to every corner of the nebula?" Grunt arched an eyebrow, already understanding where the turian was going.

Garrus gave a quick nod. "We can't allow this ship to remain intact. Figure there'll be a way in over there to overheat a weapons emplacement or jury-rig a sensitive system to detonate—cause a chain reaction in the core somehow. We'll have to split into two teams. I'll continue to search for Roahn—no doubt she's with Aleph and she'll need whatever help she can get."

"I'll help you look for her," Liara stepped forth.

"As will I," Grunt said.

The lean and colorful ex-convict took a look at the small squad that had already aligned itself in one direction before she jerked a thumb in an alternate location, towards the secondary objective.

"I'll take a look at the battery, then. See if I can cause this fucker to go up in flames."

"Preferably not while we're still on it," Garrus pointed out.

Jack gave a sarcastic chuckle. "Right. Knew there was something I was forgetting." She then eyed Sam thoughtfully. "You coming, doc?"

Neither option was particularly conducive to Sam's talents, but he had very little choice in the matter, he felt. Regardless, so much lately was beyond his power that he had pretty much given up at trying to manipulate the situation so that it could be reigned under his control.

"What the hell, why not?" he muttered with a faltering shrug.

The two groups then parted with only solemn looks shared amongst the participants. None of them let their gaze linger for long, lest morose inclinations would start to roost in their consciousness. Sam hobbled in Jack's wake, his limp on the verge of returning.

The sustained vibrations were becoming more and more apparent the further they traveled down the hall, but they had yet to reach any landmarks. Both Jack and Sam were becoming darkly incredulous at the sheer fact that the same conundrum of an unnavigable vessel was starting to become all the more apparent. From all the corridors and hallways they had traversed among the two, they very well could have already gone the entire length of the ship!

"For the love of…" Sam sighed as they stumbled onto yet another stark intersection with no directional signage broadcasting their whereabouts. "I've been in wards on the Citadel that were less confusing to get around!"

"So why don't you stop bitching and moaning and—? Wait a minute. Shut up." Jack grimaced as she tilted her head, detecting low sounds at the deepest frequencies her ears could register. She then guided Sam to follow, now heading down the rightmost lane, towards a dull groaning.

The two were rewarded in the next minute as they finally stumbled across a door that was shut tight. Like the rest of its brethren, it lacked any sort of label to denote what was behind it, but judging by the cantankerous sounding noises just beyond its face, it was pretty much obvious that they had located the gun battery of the _Morningtide_. Both took out their weapons, making sure that they had ample thermal clips in them. Sam reached out his palm, readying to open the door.

"Left side of the room for me and right for you?" he quickly asked as he jolted his gun towards the door for emphasis.

Purple-white energy crackled between the biotic's knuckles. She gave a tight but restrained smile.

"Let's do it."

Their suspicions were indeed proven correct when they moved past the open door in that this was the gun battery, the first time today they had ventured upon a location on this damned ship that they had _meant_ to find. The room was parallelogram shaped, slanting towards the center of the ship. Two large turret emplacements as tall as the room had been erected on its rightmost side, a force field cutting halfway across, allowing only their barrels to extend into the cold of space. A jumble of heat diffusion hoses poured from the rears of the guns, tumbling across the ground in a disorganized bundle. From here, one could get a fairly decent vantage point of the battle at this profile.

To their surprise, the place was not as occupied as they would have thought. Only two techs near a rack of turret cabling whirled to face them, drawn by the sound of the door opening. They were helmeted and wore coverings that barely functioned as body armor. They were also carrying a rather large fuel cell between the two of them—occupying both their hands as they had been in the process of shuffling it over from their stores to a nearby cart.

Apparently even Aleph needed some helping hands from organics on his ship. At least there were no cyborgs around to contend with this time.

Neither Sam nor Jack could miss the logos emblazoned upon the front of the two techs—the postmodern and minimalized brand of Dark Horizon. They also took note of the weapons that the techs had attached to their hips but since they had been caught in the middle of maneuvering a large and awkward object together, none of them could reach their firearms lest they risk dropping their volatile cargo. The mercs had frozen in a humorous position, almost as if they were kids having been caught stealing from the cookie jar.

Sam decided to try and take advantage of the situation by holding out his pistol in a taut arm.

"Hello there, morons. Just so that we all stay calm, why don't you two set down the fuel cell, keep your hands well away from your weapons, and we'll make this as painless as poss—"

Jack immediately made Sam a liar when she unexpectedly loosed a single shot from her submachine gun that smacked dead center into the fuel cell the Dark Horizon techs were still holding.

There was a tiny glimmer of a spark. The whole thing exploded in the next second.

Violent yellow waves of ignited fuel quickly washed over the two techs in a weightless scream. Shrapnel from the canister flew apart in a whirling hail, tearing the mercenaries apart after they had been charbroiled in less than a second. A magnificent ripple of noise pounded the interior of the battery. Sam had to shield his face as light and heat assaulted his frame.

Two seconds later, the flames expended their fuel and extinguished themselves in a pathetic puff of smoke, leaving two bodies burnt beyond belief to slowly smolder upon the ground.

An exasperated Sam slowly looked over at Jack, saying nothing at first but giving her quite the stare of disappointment.

Only after did the biotic make eye contact with him did he finally get a drawl out.

"Nice," he said in quite the sarcastic tone as he holstered his gun. "Way to go, champ."

"The hell are you mad at me for?" Jack reeled her head back, incredulous.

"Do I really need to spell it out for you? If I were to look up the word '_impatient'_ in a dictionary, I bet your picture would be there right next to it!"

"Like you actually expected them to follow your orders? How _dense_ can you be?!"

Sam now waved his hands frantically, his eyes screwed shut. He tried to ignore the scent of charred flesh and molten polymer that was beginning to waft over.

"It—it—you know, whatever. Come on, zip it, sweetheart, we've got better things to do here!"

"Call me 'sweetheart' again and I'll knock your fucking head off!" Jack snorted, but backed off all the same.

Both of them quickly embarked on a swift accounting of the room. Sam opened up the turret consoles that had been bolted onto the sides of the large weaponry while Jack checked the stacks of armament cores in order to find out what tools they had at their disposal.

The doctor quickly became agog with dismay as he clumsily navigated his way through the _Morningtide's_ installed software. The UI was not at all easy to manipulate and resorted to heavy jargon and acronyms among its most basic functions. Even on what he presumed were the main screens, Sam was unable to interpret the metric dashboards situated there. This was useless, he decided after a minute. No way was he going to be able to do anything to the ship from this screen.

Jack was not faring all that much better. She searched high and low for any usable device in the area, nearly tripping over exposed cabling as she looked through racks and shelves filled with STS laser batteries. Those certainly would not do as a destructive device. Merely cracking a battery open would only punch a hole in the side of the _Morningtide_. That was damage that could easily be mitigated by their host, and hell, since Aleph was a cyborg, a compromised atmosphere could very well be a negligible annoyance to him. There was simply nothing that she could see that would bring about a more permanent end to the vessel.

Stumped and seemingly out of options, the two reconvened in the center of their room, their faces looking lost and forlorn.

"Computer's useless," Sam jerked a thumb backwards. "You're going to need a serious programmer to decipher that crap. And I don't think what we're looking for is on that console anyway."

Jack similarly spread her hands in a defeated gesture as she found a large and heavy crate near a long conveyer belt, colored a dark green, for her to momentarily sit upon. She had to kick it a few times to maneuver it from underneath a work table.

"Can't find anything to blow this place up, either. Shame, an explosion was always the solution to many of my problems."

Sam was about to make a suggestion when he blinked, noticing—between Jack's legs—white stenciling painted on the side of the box that Jack was currently sitting on. He tilted his head, reading for just a moment until his eyes widened.

Very slowly, he raised a finger and pointed it at the box, right where Jack had her legs open enough for him to read the writing there.

"That's a bomb," he said matter-of-factly.

A harsh laugh bubbled from Jack's throat, thinking that Sam was lying. It was only when she noticed that his stern expression had not changed a whit was when she bent her head nearly upside-down in an effort to see what the doctor was pointing to. In a flash, she shot to her feet, backing up so quickly she nearly trod on Sam's feet.

"And I was _kicking_ it, too!" she breathed.

They quickly knelt down to appraise the container. It was a heavy-duty box, sealed by a digital keypad on the side. Sam broke it open by bashing the grip of his weapon against the pad, dislodging it. Such a cheap design for a very dangerous cargo.

Inside, lying upon a jagged foam bed, was a cylindrical object made up of smaller pylons that circled a thin column in the middle. Blue-gray colored and rather heavy. It was crudely welded together—bits of wire were sticking out from the mismatched ends. A simple screen sat atop the device, the only input source that could be perceived.

"MADM W98 nuclear weapon," Sam recited the label off the container. "Medium yield… you could probably get 50 kilotons off this thing. It'll be enough to blow us all to hell if we're not careful."

"Great," Jack said. "So, how do we start the timer?"

Sam screwed up his face as he tilted his head this way and that, simultaneously tapping upon the thin glass of the nuke's tablet.

"That's the next issue. I… don't really know how."

Jack was incredulous. "What do you mean you don't know how?!"

"Don't tell me that _you_ don't!"

"No!"

"But… then… why would you volunteer for this job if you didn't have the skills for following it through?!"

The biotic looked like she was on the verge of punching Sam rather hard in the jaw.

"I thought that the nature of the job would make it evident that someone with explosives experience would be needed!"

Sam ran a hand down his face, momentarily tugging at his bottom eyelids, exposing wet red flesh.

"There's your first problem, right there. Second problem: we don't need an explosives expert, we need a _tech_ expert. We want to rig this thing so that it goes off when we're safely away from the blast radius, not while we're still holding our dicks in our hands, arguing over this thing!"

"I might have a solution," a voice that was decidedly _not_ Jack's spoke from near the entrance of the room.

Both humans nearly jumped out of their skins, hands fumbling towards their weapons in a manic moment until they quickly came to their senses.

Korridon stood at the entrance, arm holding him steady against the frame. He was tired, panting, and still blood-stained from his time as a prisoner, but he still had enough energy to hobble his way over to the two. He ignored the surges of light that seeped in from beyond the force fields to his right, half of his face briefly being cast into deluges of white as he made his way across the room.

Sam stood, mouth briefly agape.

"What are _you_ doing here? I thought James took you back to the shuttle."

"I did!" James blurted as he now raced into the room behind the turian, speak of the devil. "Stubborn bastard refused to get himself to safety!"

"He told me what Roahn was planning to do," Korridon gritted, one eye weeping a yellowish fluid though he was momentarily holding back his ailments. "And I told him that if Roahn was still on this ship, I would do everything in my power to help her out. I'm not going to be held back because of a few bumps and bruises."

Sam tilted his head, now rather apprehensive.

"You do realize you probably have a lot of internal damage, not to mention some of your facial wounds aren't healing—"

"Spare me," Korridon shook his head as he shouldered his way past the doctor and towards the nuke on the ground, still in its container. "I'll get us what we need."

Sam gave a blink, a bit taken aback by the turian's change in demeanor. Though he knew he could not blame him—being tortured for days on end would harden even the most malleable of individuals. Korridon had clearly stifled his emotions, adopting a callous mindset as he proceeded to narrow only his objective in his sights, a selective tunnel vision. The turian's scratched fingers began tapping on several icons upon the tablet in quick succession, managing to deftly navigate his way through a tangle of menus without even giving pause for the briefest of moments.

Jack had also stood by now and she look at Sam and James in confusion.

"Just who the hell _is_ this guy?" she asked as she limply motioned her hand in Korridon's direction.

Sam could only shrug.

"Our tech expert. Meet Korridon."

The three watched Korridon in silence as he worked, all slowly grouping over to peer over the turian's shoulders, trying to catch a glimpse of what exactly he was doing. A useless effort—none of them could penetrate the dense and elaborate tangle of menus, workflows, and other isolated instances that Korridon was using in his programming efforts. So much work, just to arm a damn bomb. It seemed so superfluous.

"We're all set," Korridon said a minute later. He looked over his shoulder at Sam. "What time limit do you want me to input?"

Sam, not prepared to have been asked such a question, blinked heavily. He glanced over at his peers for a little additional support.

"Don't want it set for too long so that others can disarm it with time to spare," he mused. "Also don't want it set too short that we can't evacuate in time. Figure… twenty minutes?"

Korridon waited for anyone to object. When no such rebuttal came around, he gave a solemn nod before he hunkered back to the nuke, making the final preparations for its fateful arming.

James fidgeted in place as a thought came to him.

"We're going to have to alert Garrus and the others, let them know we're on a time limit now."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Sam agreed as he activated his omni-tool. "Garrus? Liara? Roahn? We've located a nuke on the ship and are about to arm it. If you can hear me on this frequency, please respond."

The fact that dead silence was the only thing to whisper back over the comms was not at all reassuring. Sam tried again.

"Garrus? We've got twenty minutes to find Shepard and get the hell of this ship! Do you read?"

More colorless static fluctuated in a banal fizz. James and Jack quickly opened their tools as well and issued similar hails, all falling to the same result. Grimly, the quartet shared dark looks, no one willing to pop this lead balloon right out the gate.

"Goddamn it," James uttered with a sigh. "The ship's jamming with our communications, too."

* * *

Roahn raced towards the Monolith, towards her father, Aleph being forgotten in the background.

"_Dad!_" she screamed, arms outstretched, her cries barely registering to the delirious and drained human.

The quarian got within three feet of Shepard until she smashed headlong into what was an invisible force field. A furious red barrier sprang up around the Monolith in a dome shape and lashed out a bolt of lightning that struck Roahn full-on in the stomach. She was propelled a good five meters backwards before she crashed heavily to the ground, relatively unharmed, but her overworked barrier generator was starting to smoke.

She rolled onto her stomach with a groan before slowly getting back to her feet. Roahn lifted her head, her wide eyes issuing a silent plea to the monster that stood before her.

"Let him go!" she cried, her hands pressing against the ground so forcefully they could have shattered rock and metal. "He's done nothing to you!"

Cruelly apathetic, Aleph did not respond immediately. When he did, it was with the barest of sighs.

"**You're correct. He has done nothing to me. But he can do everything for me.**"

"Bastard!" Roahn spat as she activated her omni-sword and swung it in position to strike. A hollow threat—Aleph could retaliate against her without so much as batting an eye. "You're doing all of this to hurt me! He has no part of this! It's just us, Aleph! I'm the one you want!"

"**Once again, you are incorrect. You perceive my actions toward you as deliberate cruelty when in fact that was never the point I wished to make. Your cultivated hatred for me has simply been driven by tragic coincidence. Your father, the esteemed Commander Shepard, was simply the missing key I needed to turn the lock upon the Monolith**."

Roahn roared and smashed her sword down upon the barrier that separated her and the Monolith in an effort to break it. The blow simply rebounded off the angry field of static. The barrier itself buzzed and rippled before it arced out another powerful jolt in response, tapping the edge of the quarian's omni-sword and shaking her arm nearly out of her socket with a resounding crack! She stumbled back, momentarily stunned from the retaliating impact.

Behind the force field, Shepard dully stirred, still groaning as he lacked the capacity to recognize his own daughter was so close by. He twitched his head, barely able to recognize Roahn's voice before he limply flopped back down again.

Watching her, Aleph shook his head.

"**It would take efforts beyond those that you possess to reach him now. Shepard's genetic codes, his DNA, despite severe damage from radiation, were strongly affected by his exposure to the Reapers, more so than any person who ever lived. I told you once before, that sort of peril leaves irreparable wounds to a person's genetic structures. Familiar scars, ones that follow patterns. Patterns that the Monolith is able to decipher, to translate its own corrosive tendencies with that of organic biology. To put it simply, your father is riddled with damages the Reapers inflicted, deeper than any surface injury he sustained at their hands. His DNA allowed me to finally facilitate a connection between the Monolith and every implanted organic in this galaxy. At the very wave of a hand, I am now able to touch anyone anywhere on all the stars known in the Milky Way.**"

He looked to the stricken commander as callously as one would look upon a lamb meant for a succulent dinner.

"**And unfortunately, I must maintain this connection through violent means. Your father struggled, as you would imagine, but in the end, he could not stand in the way of the ever-growing tide. As he grows weaker, the Monolith grows stronger. It is fitting, seeing that his last act will be to ensure that the galaxy is set on course towards the future he always wanted. Though… he will not get to see it**."

Budding emotions raged a turbulent war in the fragile mind of the quarian. She could not pick the lies from the truth—but a sobering notion was the fact that everything that Aleph's mouth had not been falsehoods. Roahn looked to her father, in the greatest of agonies, and to Aleph, ever languid. She was losing this battle as well as the next one. She was losing everything she had before her eyes!

"You're beyond my ability to hate," she simply said, too exhausted to raise her voice again. "I swear to whatever deity you pray to that I will make it my sole mission to take your head and eject it out of the nearest airlock I find!"

If he had teeth under that helmet, Aleph seemed like he could bare a grin.

"**You might have to wait longer than you expect for such a chance to come your way. But at least know that you are your father's daughter through and through. It will take quite an effort to make you succumb to your despair, I believe**."

"Quite," Roahn agreed tiredly as she angled her omni-sword parallel to the ground. She shifted her stance, now directing herself towards the cyborg, readying for a brutal charge. She kept her father in the corner of her eye, a part of her crying out to him, wanting to keep him calm and let him know that everything was going to be all right. "At least tell me one last thing."

Aleph situated himself benevolently, one foot in front of the other, arms at his sides in preparation.

"**What do you wish to know?**"

"How did you get Korridon to crack so quickly? How did you get him to divulge the _Menhir's_ nav codes so you could board it?"

The abrupt halt in the conversation was not the sort of reaction Roahn had been anticipating. It threw her off guard, leaving her confused at her enemy's curious lack of a reaction for something that should have garnered a simple answer.

"**Ah**," Aleph finally said. "**You're referring to the turian**."

Roahn felt her face furiously flush.

"Who else could I be referring to?!" she seethed, indignant at this supposed demonstration of ignorance. "How else could you have made it onto the ship in the first place?"

"**But the turian never broke. Hour after hour the Cardinal worked on him to no avail. He did not betray you, despite what you may think**."

Nothing was making sense for the poor quarian anymore. She had no barometer to distinguish reality after today. The distortions were now blending in with the facts. Roahn was about to dissuade this latest statement as something completely inane, intent on launching herself forward to cut Aleph down to size when she unexpectedly heard the sliding noise from a door opening somewhere to her left, upon the upper section of the dais. More vibrant and wet-sounding footsteps were clacking forward—someone was approaching.

Roahn swept her foot at an angle, preparing her sword in greeting for this new arrival. But she was in a shock when the darkness finally seeped over the person that was walking in at Aleph's side. Splashes of crimson light floated upon them, brought in by the reoccurring detonations just outside the window. They came in unarmed, hands wide and open, hair tied in a loose bob, with a sad smile on their face.

Dumbstruck, Roahn tilted her weapon downward a fraction as her brain immediately recognized the incoming person. For the second time today, her heart seemed to stop.

"S-Skye?"

* * *

**A/N: In the words of a notorious Italian plumber, "_That's a spicy meatball!_"**

**Playlist:**

**Too Late**  
**"Inferno"**  
**Hans Zimmer, Bryce Jacobs, and Mel Wesson**  
**Rush (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**The Gun Battery/Arming the Bomb**  
**"You Lied to Me"**  
**Hans Zimmer and Steve Mazzaro**  
**Chappie (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Traitor Revealed**  
**"River of Knives"**  
**Andy LaPlegua**  
**Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	34. Chapter 34: Infinity Wound

"_We know all about Rule 34. Yes, you should be ashamed of yourselves."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Morningtide_

A growing uncertainty clung to Roahn's mind like a parasite, siphoning her thoughts. Every breath that surged into her lungs now became quite the titanic effort, as though as she had to bite and chew off the filtered air like strips of jerky in order for her body to be nourished. Electric pins and needles circled her eyeballs, preventing her from looking away. An elemental wind seemed to crash upon her, threatening to sweep her off her feet.

Skye was still wearing the same mournful smile since she had entered the room. A dark bodysuit and thin pieces of armor encapsulated her form, leaving just her face and bare hands revealed. Her footsteps were eerily silent as they rolled off the polished black tiles. Her flaming red hair gently bobbed behind her as she walked, but it had a sluggish flow to it, as if she had been submerged in a basin of liquid.

All things considered, she looked remarkably well for a dead woman.

In the background, Aleph slunk back towards the columnar windows, letting himself become awash from the fiery glow beyond, the cascade of exploding ships. He fell silent, content at watching the scene naturally play out without any need for him to step in.

Skye came to within a meter of Roahn before she stopped in her tracks, warm light from the battle outside throwing half of her face in a deep shadow. Across from her, the quarian's eyes were blazing heavily behind her cerulean mask, body slightly hunched and teetering slightly from side to side, quite anxious. Roahn did not know how to think at that moment or what she should be feeling. Relief? Confusion? Anger? They all charged in and impacted upon the poor quarian all at once, sending her into a dizzying spell that left her completely discombobulated.

Sensing this, Skye's smile sweetened and she reached out a hand.

"Roahn… I…"

But the quarian took a large step back, unwilling to let the human touch her. Her breathing came out in panicked surges, a tremble nesting upon the fingers of her right hand.

"_No_," Roahn defiantly shook her head before she gave the silhouetted outline of Aleph a sideways glance, taking solace in the distance between them. She looked back to Skye and continued to savagely make her denial known. "No. No. This isn't happening. You can't be here, Skye."

_A thin beam of light, a gentle shattering of heat and force, surged over the frozen ground, barely rippling the icy dust coating the thick rock underneath. The bullet slammed into Skye's chest, crackling through her shields, and emitting a large volume of sparks in a wide gout from where it impacted._

_Her last words, an incomplete fragment of a forlorn question, seeking to understand why Roahn had seemingly abandoned her, were now cut off with an unexpected gasp. Skye's knees bent uncontrollably and she fell to the ground, sending up a spray of ancient dirt as she lay there on the floor of the cold valley._

_On Roahn's helmet, she could see Skye's heartbeat flatline upon her HUD. Material proof, as definite as it could get. A shadow of her own voice, a pathetic scream, echoed faintly in her ears._

There was nothing else to imagine. Roahn knew what she had seen. There was no reason to accept anything else as fact. Skye had been lost down on Triton, killed by a fateful shot. There was no reason to question what her eyes had seen in their totality.

Yet the presence of Skye on this ship now clearly laid waste to that particular theory.

"I _am_ here," Skye said breathily, her smile now cooling as concern now hardened her gaze. She still kept her arms outstretched but did not come any closer to Roahn, as though the quarian was a goal she was forever destined to have out of reach. "And this is all real, Roahn. If you'll let me, I can explain everything—"

"Explain _what?_" Roahn growled, a boiling sensation cropping up in her throat. "What explanation could you possibly give that would make this look any different? I mourned you, damn it. I thought I had lost you for good. Yet… here you are, trying to convince me otherwise. Are you going to try and explain how I'm not going crazy? That you're not just a figment of my imagination? Or that you're not a clone? A fancy VI programmed to think that it's Skye Lorne?"

"I'm none of the above," Skye now tilted both hands upward, a pleading look overtaking her. "I'm the same Skye you know and love."

But Roahn vehemently shook her head again, furious breath storming through her nostrils.

"And yet… you're somehow walking free on Aleph's ship. What else could this possibly look like to me? Skye…" Words faltered as her eyes momentarily widened in an emotional plea, "…what have you _done?!_"

The human looked tender and hurt as she faced the unspoken allegations from the quarian. Roahn's final words lingered for a second in the air before they were consumed by the darkness. Skye dropped her arms back down as she made to lift something from a side pocket. An object in hand, she held it up for the light to catch.

Roahn tilted her head as she tried to see what Skye was holding. It looked like a tiny circuit board, a gray slate riddled with metallic highways and miniature transistors rimming around dense chips. But, as Skye tilted it in her hand, the light caught its face, briefly highlighting a tectonic scaffolding of angular wiring and pinpricks, along with a sudden and ragged hole torn right in the middle of the card. Illumination poured through the hole, making it look like an orange circle was levitating just above Skye's fingers. Roahn found herself oddly enraptured by it to the point where her eyes tracked the hole's position wherever the human's hand wavered.

Skye then cupped the circuit board in her hands, the morose smile returning.

"My… my armor's diagnostic chip," she was barely able to get out. "It's where the bullet hit me, you see. Didn't even penetrate my armor all the way, but it drove the breath from my lungs. Knocked down, I couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. I was still alive the whole time… but with the chip destroyed, the object that transmits my biorhythms to our battle-net, you would have seen a flatline on my heartbeat readout because I had been technically disconnected from that function. You really _did_ think that I had died. It's so silly, I mean. To think this misunderstanding was all because of a breakdown in technology. But… I really do sympathize with what you went through. It must have been so easy for you to imagine, Roahn, thinking that I was gone."

Moving forward a few careful steps, Skye once again tried to reach out to Roahn, but the quarian would shy away each time, making almost violent recoils as she made an awkward circle upon the raised portion of the room. She kept Aleph in the corner of her eye, never once allowing her pulse to fall into a complacent rhythm.

"On that moon," Skye continued, her own eyes threatening to become bogged down by a watery inconvenience, "I thought… you would have chosen to save me over anyone else. I thought that you would never let anyone come between us. So, when I saw you choose Korridon instead of me… I… I couldn't think. I did not know what I was looking at. It was as if you looked upon me and saw a stranger."

The two women made a slow hemisphere on the platform, with Roahn's gaze growing more and more mistrustful, her own indignation growing that Skye was somehow missing the larger picture yet treating her as if she was the idiot among them.

The shadows gnarled and twisted their way around Skye's face as she rotated to continually face Roahn.

"But I understand the reason _why_, now. I've thought it over again and again. I managed to figure out why you went to Korridon first instead of me. I was… well, _disappointed_ is putting it mildly… but the point is, I can empathize with the choice you made, Roahn. And I'm telling you that _it's all right_. You don't need to be scared. I've _forgiven_ you, do you hear me? I've forgiven you."

Isolated behind her mask, Roahn still refused to respond. Her lip curled in disgust as she watched the human practically prostrate herself before her. Begging for forgiveness, in essence. The reckoning had not yet begun for Skye, but the quarian wanted to know exactly what it was that Skye thought that tipped the scales for her being in favor to make a break for Korridon back on Triton. Did the human make a simple miscalculation, a terrible misunderstanding in her efforts to break down Roahn's thought process? Did Skye think that she had an ulterior motive other than using the turian to find Aleph?

Despite explanations being promised, Roahn would be denied this one spotlight into the shadows of Skye's mind as she moved on, wiping her eyes before she continued on in her sorry tale.

"When I awoke… I was alone on this ship. My wounds had been dressed—at no point was I treated like a prisoner. They—Aleph—did not torture me or force me to do anything against my better nature. But… he did give me a choice. Something that… I couldn't back away from."

_Shut up_, Roahn furiously thought. _Shut up. Shut up, you stupid bitch_.

Whether Skye realized that she was merely digging her own grave or not went unnoticed as she now looked to her hands, which had curled to form helpless claws.

"Aleph told me," she choked out, giving her head a tiny shake towards the silent captor near the window, "that he knew you would be coming. And that you would do whatever was in your power to stop him—but he would not hold back when the time came, either. He told me… that to spare you pain—to save your life—he would want to complete his work as soon as possible. He said I could help him. Help _you_. All he wanted was for… for…"

Roahn tried to close her eyes, an inclination to shut off her audio receptors momentarily flaring before the sensation ebbed and died out, leaving her vulnerable to the final and hideous revelation.

"…for me to give him the _Menhir's_ nav codes," Skye blurted out, near tears, sensing the quarian's pain. "He said that was the only way to save your life. Aleph promised me that if I cooperated, he would not kill you, Roahn. I didn't _know_ that it was your father he wanted… I swear to you I didn't know. There was just no other way that I could save you."

Frightfully swaying on the spot, Roahn thought she was going to be sick inside her helmet. A hard pulsation—a fitful headache—mashed against her temples, nearly drawing cries from the fearful stabs. She could not even _look_ at Skye, for the woman's sorrowful face was seemingly turning demonic in the harsh light, the hair on her head now looking like it had caught fire upon her scalp. Nauseated, she made an effort to look away, not wanting to lose herself in the human's pleading eyes.

The slouched and dimly breathing form of Shepard against the Monolith now caught her eye. Roahn let a gasp slowly slither from her mouth as she felt her anguish grow cold against her heart, a throbbing organ of icicles grinding itself against her warm muscle in a frantic clash of elements.

_Dad… please… please wake up! I need your help!_

"Roahn," she heard Skye's voice beg in the background. "Roahn, please look at me."

_Don't do it._

Grinding her teeth together, she clenched her jaw and stilled her neck. A jitter ran down her spine, but the quarian still held firm, resolute against her temptations.

"Roahn… can't you see why I did this?" Skye tried once more to reach out to the woman, tears now beginning to fall down her face. "It was all for _you_. I did it because I loved you. I _still_ love you. And if you—"

Before the human's fingers could make contact, there was the barest sliver of a metallic sound that trickled through the room like a careful breeze. Three artificial fingers suddenly opened and clenched Skye's wrist, catching it and holding it in place. Standing perpendicular to Skye, Roahn finally looked over with a terrible silence, eyes narrowed and judgmental as she stared at the limb she was grasping in her prosthetic hand. The human offered no resistance—Skye had been shocked into a numb limpness upon being denied her chance to offer a comforting touch.

As she held the human's hand at a bearable distance away from her body, for the first time in her life, Roahn was glad that she had an enviro-suit to prevent her from truly feeling Skye's skin. Glad that she had an artificial arm, rendering her unable to create a memory of what touching Skye was like. The suit and the arm withered those moments in her mind into a caustic dust, the recollections of their time tangled in bed together, surrounded by crumpled sheets as their faces had been inches away. There would never be another time for her to recapture that sensation, to refresh her unconscious awareness of what caring for this woman had truly felt like. All she could see now was something despicable. The cold palm of her hand could only transmit the dim perception of a trembling limb—no sensuality, no sensitivity—just a quiet and fuzzy feeling buried in the back of her mind. Sensation at a distance.

"I…" Roahn's hoarse voice nearly cracked, while her eyelids waged a war to keep her own tears dammed up, "…can never… forgive you. I have… nothing else to say to you."

Skye almost gave a sob, showing white teeth in a tortured grimace.

"Roahn… oh, Roahn… no. No… _please_…"

"_Nothing_," Roahn forcefully reiterated before she shoved the human's arm away with a firm motion and took a step back in finality.

"You don't mean that. Oh, god… you don't mean that…"

"Don't!" Roahn shouted as she activated her omni-sword for good measure, a gleaming barrier that produced a savage glow between the two of them. The crackling spear, jutting downward from her wrist, nearly scraped the floor, the field of energy sending up a thin trail of sparks that wafted upwards as they were caught by a limp draft.

Skye recoiled at the sight of the weapon, aghast and confused, searching Roahn's clouded features for some sort of clemency but all she could perceive was cold anger.

Echoes of emotions of all colors resonated within Roahn. A few days ago she had been mourning the death of a person she had thought she could love. Now she was looking upon that person, all intentions of affection having vanished in an instant. It was a pain she had felt once before, coincidentally also by Skye's hand, but it tore at her with far more of a ferocious vigor now. Words could not convey the complexity of her mindset, but the loathing and the utter hatred her eyes exuded served as an apt interpretation for the human. Skye recognized the intention in Roahn's posture and her body gave a terrible shake, unwilling to succumb to the disastrous conclusion of her own failure.

"Whatever we had," Roahn's voice tumbled out, toneless, "whatever we could become… it doesn't exist anymore. I didn't want this. _Keelah_, I… I never wanted this. You never asked what I felt. _Again_. I shouldn't have expected any better from you, Skye, because you never did change, did you? Always acting without thinking…"

"**Or perhaps she was wise enough to realize the futility of her actions and took the opportunity to disengage, having ensured that she would gain something for her efforts**," Aleph unexpectedly spoke over by the window, heavy palm uplifted in suggestion.

Roahn whirled in a panic. She had nearly forgotten that Aleph was there!

"**In the end, it does not matter**," Aleph continued, heedless of the quarian's shock. "**The pieces have all fallen into place. The last vestiges of the galactic order are on the precipice of crumbling.**"

Ever defiant, Roahn waved her blazing sword in the cyborg's direction, abandoning Skye willingly to the background.

"Not before I show you my true potential, bastard!"

"**And not before I show you mine**," Aleph calmly countered, his arm still benevolently held outward. **"The decimation of the Citadel's population was only a part of what constitutes the Tranquility I have envisioned. The Monolith can do so much more than corrupt electrical pathways in one's brain. There is still one final objective that I have yet to achieve, one last milestone the Monolith will help me carry out. It requires an audience to bear witness—another thing you've kindly brought me."**

The quarian tensed her knees, eyeing the cyborg in mistrust.

"What are you _talking_ about?!" she hissed frantically.

As she would eventually come to expect, Aleph chose to let silence reign for several beats, content to let Roahn figure it out by herself without needing to spell everything out, to fill every second with a deluge of information, of confessions.

"**A fateful trajectory…**" Aleph whispered as he raised his hand higher, holding it just below shoulder-height. **"…towards a peripeteia**."

Then, the cybernetic monstrosity began to clench his hand, tender bolts of red electricity being squeezed between his fingers. A ripple of stillness pulsated throughout the room in a pummeling void. Aleph's arm began to tremble in his socket, light and energy streaming from his grip like liquid.

The Monolith was awakening.

A terrible scream drew Roahn's attention. Shepard was sitting upright, still not entirely lucid, mouth wide open in agony as mechanical arteries upon the Monolith began to grow bright red. The chains kept Shepard bound against the device, his blood sliding upon the flat and mirror-like surface as it poured from his body. A low resonation began to build from the Monolith, an invisible locus of power building underneath its metallic face. The human was convulsing—from blood loss or the pain—as the Monolith greedily sapped his strength, deep wells within the device carrying on a fateful and merciless pull, withering the man's health away in powerful surges.

A wordless howl raced from Roahn's throat, a primordial sound from the basest of reactions. She tried to race over to the Monolith, now screaming for her father, but Skye stepped in front of the quarian, an anguished look upon her.

"No, don't!" she pleaded for Roahn to stop, holding out her arms. "Stay back, the Monolith will take you too!"

Roahn teetered on a mental precipice, caught between her desire to save her father and the knowledge that mounting a rescue right now could mean her death—crackling shafts of lightning scurried around the diameter of the dome that situated itself over the Monolith. Another barrier separating father from daughter. No telling how powerful those bolts were—chances were that a single strike would knock her dead in less than a second.

From outside, a new source of light began to invade. It started as a tiny dot no bigger than a pinhead, but quickly grew in size, becoming larger and larger. Silver illumination soon poured in through the three columned windows—frosted shafts of immaculate alabaster. The luminosity continued to expand in form in the dark space within the nebula. A spherical object, made completely out of pure white light. A sun? No… it was too small. Smaller than the Citadel but larger than any ship in their vicinity. The orb grew to the size of a massive asteroid, easily dwarfing the largest dreadnought by five times its size. The void of light carved out the center of the battlefield, casting aside the dark sheets of dust around the nebula, revealing every ship in proximity. As if on cue, every single cannon, every single fighter, ceased firing upon each other, all locked in place from the same confusion, the same burning desire to answer the one question on their minds.

What the hell was this?

Looking frantically from her father, trapped in deathly throes, to the commanding form of Aleph, who was still savagely clenching a hand while arcs of crimson lines like an expansive spider's web trembled around the armored appendage.

_The light outside… the Monolith… he's the one doing it._

"Stop it!" she cried, shoving Skye away, her words her only weapons at her disposal.

Aleph did not seem to want to acquiesce.

"**The theme of wanting to return the galaxy to the status quo was a decision made out of ignorance,**" Aleph said loudly, the brightness now beginning to claw at his back, almost as if it was strong enough to rend severe cracks in his armor. "**Ignorance of the past is a condemnation upon all of us. It demands us to repeat it, to learn from our mistakes. Regretfully, the loss of every soul on the Citadel is not an event that can be made to parallel to those past mistakes. This society would still be confined to the same loop of tired obliviousness, of willful blindness.**"

He tipped his head, altering the motes of light that curved and attacked in a deadly dance on his reflective front.

"**We will now obtain that parallel. The galaxy shall have its retribution, its penance, for such negligence. I will bring them the reparation that will convince them of their errors. A reminder that no one will be able to ignore.**"

Beyond the window, Roahn could see a dark blur start to emerge in the center of the white hole that had practically exploded into view. It grew larger and larger, as though as if it was traveling through a tunnel at full tilt, racing to reach the end! Roahn squinted to get a better look at the object, but her focus had not yet arrived.

"**They will recognize the nameless fear that they have left buried for so long, mistakenly thinking that it had been vanquished for good,**" Aleph hissed. "**They will realize the futility of their predicament. They will cower and be remorseful once they conclude that they had squandered their only chance at a guiltless future." **

Sparks spat from Aleph's hand. The light of creation warmed his back, threatening to rip him apart. The Monolith groaned. Shepard's mouth opened in a frantic cry, yet no sound escaped.

"**Behold, Roahn'Shepard. Behold the manifestation of a familiar horror."**

A blot upon a stark white plain of snow. An approaching stranger. The anomaly in the middle of the infinite singularity surged forth with a purpose, a murderous intent.

"**Behold the amalgamation of the galaxy's hatred. For I am now the embodiment of their pain, of their fear, and of their anger."**

Invisible surges of energy furrowed along the inside of the white hole, as though as if was electrifying the limitless surface area. Cosmic pulsations rippled into the large outline of the object within it, sending power hurtling along circuit pathways, punching through long-dormant capacitors, charging quantum processors, reactivating inert memories. The object, starting to rouse within the immense wormhole, stirred as cognizance flowed into it, poured from a dizzying height.

A high-pitched whine, almost a scream, now nestled itself into the topmost ranges of Roahn's hearing. A mechanism being spooled up, perhaps. Or the wail of the tortured—her father? A roaring bass note grew, a subtle undertone that hid demonic portents. It spoke to Roahn, though it was unfamiliar to her. The darkness seemed to know her name, her face. It went straight for her, as though she was its prey!

"**History… destined to repeat itself. A nightmare returned, a familiar torment. Here is your incubus, Roahn'Shepard. Here is your fear… given form!"**

The object at the center of the white hole soon expanded to a greater size at a dizzying rate. The whine became a full-bodied wail but unexpectedly crackled to sudden silence as soon as the great thing within the singularity had about escaped its confines. Before Roahn could utter a gasp, the shadowed phenomenon hurtled out of the cosmic tear like it had been fired from a cannon. Even though there was no sound in space, she could perceive just the faintest ripple of a vacuum, a moment of quietus that had everyone silenced in an awed and frightful coma.

And then the gigantic object gently floated down for all to see.

Roahn became a single droplet in a maelstrom, defenseless against the slashing winds. She stared slack-jawed at what lurked just beyond the windows, the white hole having faded to nothing behind it. The windows dimmed. Darkness was allowed to overtake the room once more. In the foreground, Aleph dropped his hand, the armor around his appendage blackened and charred, drooling savage embers to the ground.

Next to the _Morningtide_ was another ship—one that had burst from that very singularity a moment ago. But it was not like any ship Roahn had ever seen. Or any ship she had ever expected to see.

It had to be more than two kilometers tall. Two prongs made up its top—a double arrowhead. Eight "legs" like tentacles, but crescent-shaped, extended from its front end, while six smaller jointed limbs curled at its back. A network of meticulously shaped panels, some as large as a cruiser, seamlessly formed its body, rimmed by veins of goldenrod light that appeared almost like windows. Two shards of ruby glints at the front served as its eyes, making it look like a being driven to ruin, corrupted and driven to a calamitous misery. It looked like a titanic aquatic creature, but every inch of it was of a magnificent metal, a form that had once been dictated as a perfect design, one that all life would aspire to be uplifted to inhabit.

"_N-No…_" Roahn stammered as she finally sunk to her knees. "Oh… oh Keelah… no…"

Before her, the Reaper gave a tremendous bellow, the sound nearly shattering her visor, permeating every pore of her body, down to the cells that made up her person. She mentally flailed, a lethargic feeling overcoming her, a final inclination to lie down and have it all end. The sound seeped through all of space, inhabiting the minds of all in its sight. A dissonance as terrible and as intimate as could be imagined. It felt like glass was shattering in Roahn's skull, that she could hear her own mind break apart, rent to pieces as the whole room spiraled and doubled in her vision.

Hands splayed upon the ground, the drained quarian let loose a singular sob, driven nearly to madness.

At the side of the room, Shepard, too drained to have reacted to the sound, slumped lifelessly against the Monolith as chaos mounted just past the window.

* * *

Well, this had all gone to hell in a handbasket.

Garrus stuttered to a halt as he rounded the next corner, his mandibles curling in a scowl as he suddenly found himself face-to-face with a large sealed door. No terminal blazed upon the front of the opening—this one was locked tight. Based on a few divots that rimmed the edge of the threshold, this thing was sealed by four large deadbolts, essentially anchoring it in place. Tools were not going to pry this thing open at all.

A gut feeling hinted that he should maybe turn back, but Garrus had to ignore that sensation. He had already wasted enough time leading his team through the cold and lifeless halls of the _Morningtide_, trying to find some way to regroup with Roahn, who was most likely facing down her antagonist right about now. He took a look at his datapad for confirmation. A lone suit beacon glimmered just a few meters away, past this door. This was the only other way in—Sam had said that he had been blocked by a force field on the other side of the ship. There was no alternative.

"Son of a bitch," he could not resist growling out. "Someone look for an access panel."

It did not take long for that objective to be completed. Grunt was actually the one to locate the panel in question, utilizing his natural caution and grace in the process. The krogan had stood in front of a flat portion of the gleaming hallway, staring rather intently at a slightly indented section of the wall. Instead of lightly testing it, like a normal person, Grunt had reared his fist back, smashed through what had been the panel cover, and ripped it from its hinges before casting it aside.

"Found it," he said.

The sweet taste of success quickly turned to bitter disappointment. Whoever had wired this ship's electronics had done a piss-poor job of cable management. Wires floated around the fuse area, unbound, looking like multicolored intestines, slotted in to who-knows-where. Garrus now wanted to bash his own head against the wall. Even Liara looked stumped.

"How long you think it'll take to hotwire the door open?" he asked her, already dreading the answer.

Liara managed a sheepish look. "Too long. They didn't wire this thing onto the local network. Our omni-tools won't even be able to slice in."

"Great," Garrus sighed. "I _needed_ that good news for today."

A chorus of combat boots thudding through the corridor captured the squad's attention, distracting them from their dead end. They raised their weapons but quickly lowered them as soon as they saw James, Sam, Jack, and Korridon wheel around, all looking rather out of breath as though they had all finished a marathon.

"You ever think of radioing your approach?" Garrus lightly grated as he returned his assault rifle to the slot on his back. "Out of everything that has happened today, I'm not ready to deal with friendly fire!"

Ordinarily, James would put on an apologetic face for such a fuck-up, but not this time.

"Comms are screwed on this ship, jackass. Couldn't get a signal over to you."

The captain's voice then dropped an octave after he took a second to catch his breath.

"We've got other problems. We've been put on a time limit. We need to get the hell off this ship. Right now."

Garrus didn't follow. He shared a look of confusion with Grunt and Liara before returning to James.

"What do you mean? What's going on?"

James fidgeted as he pointed back the way he had just come from. "There was a nuke situated in the battery that we just took over. Didn't know if we were going to be overrun at any moment—there was a judgment call. We couldn't get you in comm range so…"

"You armed it," Garrus stated flatly, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes. Just another development to add to the pile for today. "How long did you set it for?"

"Twenty minutes, but that was five minutes ago. I can go back, increase the time limit, or…"

James continued to offer solutions but Garrus was no longer listening. His attention was torn between the realities of his situation. One end of the ship harbored a gnawing patience, a countdown towards a fiery conclusion. At the other end, the last linkage of his crew: Roahn. The turian remembered what it was like to hold the lives of a team in his hands, constantly trying to maintain a delicate balance. Always on a micro scale, never on the macro. He had thought that his newest command would have allowed him to gain some connection to the larger picture, but to his sorrow, he realized he was still thinking too small. Too inward within his immediate circles.

Yet that was fine with him. The macro would never lower itself down for him to reach. He could only focus on those he cared about, the people who were with him now. It was the only way to remain sane in this crazy galaxy.

"Take everyone back to the shuttle," he gruffly cut James off. "Don't bother with the nuke. Let it tick down."

James blinked, not understanding. "Go back…? But Garrus, we've—"

The turian craned his head towards the krogan and asari behind him, now ignoring James. "That means you, too. Go with them."

"Wait, what are-?" Liara protested.

"No!" Grunt growled, but all were ignored.

Garrus turned back to the panel, to the unenviable task of fiddling with the spaghetti-like tangle of wiring. A colorful array of objections slowly started to become raised against him from his team. He found it shockingly easy to filter them all out.

"Someone has to stay behind to support Roahn," he said tiredly, his voice cutting through the chatter, automatically commanding attention. "I won't ask such a thing from any of you." The turian then looked over, finding an array of shocked faces leveled back at him, everyone's eyes widened in astonishment. "Take the shuttle, wait for us if possible, but if Roahn or I miss our window, then you get back to the _Menhir_, and get clear of this thing before it blows. No reason to have you all get caught up in this too."

"Wait," Korridon pointed to the obstinate barrier, "Roahn's just in that next room? She's that close?! We… we all can't just leave her behind!"

"She's not being left behind," Garrus said. "She's not going to be alone, Korridon. Even if it comes down to the very end, she'll have someone there for her."

The war-weary turian checked his chronometer. Three more minutes had slipped away.

"A little more than ten minutes left," Garrus hollowly mustered. "You should get going."

No one made to leave right away. They were all still bound by threads that made breaking away difficult—the ties dictating their duty and their friendship to one another. Simultaneously balking at the command, it was as if everyone was waiting for someone other than themselves to utter one final objection, giving them a reason to stay.

But no utterances came. Defeat overcoming them, Liara and Jack turned to leave first, followed by Grunt, and then James. Sam had to step towards Korridon in order to pull him by the shoulder, but the younger turian shook off the doctor's hand, savagely rebuffing him again and again.

"Come on, kid," Sam pressed, quickly losing patience.

Sam nearly was about to ask Grunt to help him haul Korridon away by force, when the lanky turian quickly walked back over to Garrus, a determined look overtaking him. Garrus performed a double-take as he saw Korridon approaching—the young turian politely shouldered him out of the way, taking Garrus' place at the panel. Korridon's deft fingers found a spool of wire and pried it loose from a junction. The bloodied and bruised turian stared at the jungle of wiring, marbled eyes holding back a dim flame within, while he located a twistcutter tool and began shearing cables after examining their destinations with a practiced eye. Twist. Snip.

Garrus, floored at this insubordination, looked to the curious crowd for a moment, who were all watching the scene in anticipation, before he focused on Korridon.

"I gave you an order!"

"I know," Korridon said as he refused to acknowledge Garrus further. He located a turquoise wire from the middle of a black-and-white bundle. Twist. Snip.

The lights that gleamed over one of the door locks suddenly winked and went dark. Garrus saw the change out of the corner of his eye and whirled to face it.

"You fool," he spoke lowly to the younger man so that only he could hear it. "I'm trying to save your life. If we're all caught in the blast this will have been for nothing."

Korridon still did not turn his head, remaining concentrated on his work. "She didn't have to save me. She did so anyway. I have to return the favor."

Twist. Snip. A spray of sparks shot from the panel, an irritated reaction. One more lock went dark.

"It's up to you," Korridon said before Garrus could open his mouth again. "You can stay, sir. I won't leave, no matter what you tell me."

Garrus twisted his head back to the group, who was still waiting at the end of the hall, and cocked his skull with a confused face as if to say, _Can you believe this guy?_

"I figured we'd have a serious disagreement one day," Garrus bent his neck, making an exhausted chuckle as he looked outward, becoming introspective at the same time. "Didn't think the circumstances would resemble anything like this."

"Family trait, I guess," Korridon now finally glanced upon Garrus, morose amusement filling the void between them.

Just Garrus' eyes rotated to perceive Korridon.

"Not quite…" was all he said.

The rest of the crew, having watched the display before them, had used this moment to summon up their courage as a unit. Together, without any more hesitation, each and every one of them strode forward to return Garrus, paying no heed to the lightly annoyed look he was giving all of them. Their captain's look contained a disapproving judgment at such disobedience, while hiding a proud and overjoyed interior towards his team, seeing how they were so loyal to one another, so willing to face death in the face, that they would not mire themselves in pointless sacrifice, to see this thing through to the very end as a unit. As a cohesive whole.

Readying their weapons while Korridon continued to disable the locks, they all assembled in front of the door, Garrus remaining at the head of the pack, blood thumping in his ears as he managed a tight grin. Beyond this door, the might of Umbra would finally face the full power that Aleph had at his disposal.

Everyone, now…

* * *

The Reaper unfurled its arms, brimming beams of garnet from its eight legs all at once—a deadly and permanent brush. The multitude of gigantic lasers scraped in all dimensions, razing the hulls of nearby ships indiscriminately. Friend or foe, it made no difference to the machine. It twisted and rotated to revel in the ring of destruction it was quickly creating around itself. It fired again and again, nearly every salvo a direct hit. The shields of far-away cruisers vanished with brutal snaps. Metallic hulls of warboats bubbled and vaporized, violently leaking atmosphere in frantic geysers.

A few miniature explosions rippled along the face of the Reaper—feeble counterattacks from aghast ship captains and single-craft fighters. It brushed off these paltry detonations as if it had encountered a chance breeze upon its frame.

The only ship it dared not venture towards was the _Morningtide_, kept at a deliberate distance by a guiding hand.

Aleph stood to the window, appraising his handiwork, while Roahn moaned in despair behind him, the quarian still languishing on her knees.

Though he could not express it, he was proud at how effortless this portion of his grand design had turned out. Obtaining the Reaper had been the easy part—it had simply been one derelict hulk out of thousands, driven inactive after the Crucible had fired. Left with a lack of manpower, the Council had contracted several third-party crews to clean up the Reaper hulks by driving them into black holes all over the galaxy. Many of these companies had underbid to land the job as Reaper-haulers and were hurting for credits as a result of their short-sighted efforts. Aleph used that need to his advantage—thanks to a careful web of anonymous brokers, shell corporations, illiquid currency transactions, and stock manipulations, not to mention the occasional underhanded action of subterfuge, he had extended his influence to buy the companies wholesale and to utilize them to carry out his own plans.

The task of Reaper disposal was an issue so new that there was no time for any watchdog groups to lay careful eyes upon the action. Aleph had been able to spirit one of these corpses to a secret hangar without much effort—the company he had bought could simply claim that it had carried out its dispensation and the Council would be none the wiser. For decades the Reaper had been lying dormant in a base in a hollowed-out asteroid, waiting for the moment when its master would decide to put its services to use. For it to become an unwilling servant, a final punishment bestowed unto its kind.

"**Just as it has the capability to take life,**" Aleph spoke grandly, disregarding Roahn as he continued to stare at his newest acquisition, "**the Monolith has the power to restore it. The assembled framework is the same. The Monolith. The Reaper. All part of the same cosmic fabric that binds them together at the atomic and genetic level. Their technology, repurposed, is the true controller that had been sought by foolish men all those years ago. Though this time, the Reapers are the ones that have been left without a will of their own. Now, their will… is mine.**"

He slowly glided out a hand, the motion deliberate and oily, like a dancer's routine. Guiding his fingers through the air, he made a beautiful arc through the air—past the window, the Reaper changed its course to follow the path Aleph made, its graceless and grotesque body curling its pillar-like arms, a flower starved of sunlight. Missiles and melted alloy beams raced past its form—the Reaper gave the occasional response of its own by destroying any offending ships in its wake. It was called to its directive, a silent slave in service to the one who held its chain in a vice-like grip.

Aleph dropped his hand. The gravitas drained from the room. The Reaper continued on its path, wreaking havoc past the thick transparisteel, without every singular motion being dictated by the cyborg. He turned around to face Roahn, who was being helped to her feet by Skye, completely numb to all outside forces.

"**The galaxy's memory is long,"** he said. **"People will be called to respond to this encroachment in kind. They will lose faith in the institutions that could have prevented this from occurring, for it will be difficult to defend the return of the beings that had raped and pillaged the Milky Way despite having been told otherwise. From the ashes, a new order will arise. A transparent and welcoming galaxy that seeks to progress, to avoid the mistakes of their progenitors."**

Roahn pushed Skye away, nearly knocking the human down, and stumbled forward with a plodding determination.

"You're just going to _cull_ everyone who opposes you?!"

"**A shortsighted way of putting it," **Aleph shrugged**. "An insignificant fraction of the population will be directly impacted. Yet those who remain will be all the wiser from the experience. The generations that follow will look upon this period as a curiosity and will wonder why, despite seemingly having all the answers, the wrong choices had been made on a consistent basis. We will suffer so that they will be all the better for it."**

Aleph's hand had returned to his back, but only for a moment. They came back out with Roahn's pistol resting within the gleaming palms. Aleph regarded the weapon as if it were a mere curiosity for a few seconds before he abruptly seemed to lose interest in it. With a casual motion, he tossed the pistol across the room, towards Roahn, where it bounced upon the cold tile with a loud clatter and slid to a halt just inches away from the quarian's boots.

The weapon lay on its side. Barrel pointed back toward Aleph. An ironic twist of fate.

Suspecting an ulterior motive, Roahn waited nearly half a minute before she bent down to retrieve the gun, keeping her eyes locked on Aleph at all times out of trepidation. But she soon rose to her full height, armed once again, without any further aggression having been directed towards her.

She looked down and, out of reflex, slid open the ejection slide a hair, conforming that the weapon was still loaded. Was Aleph so confident in himself that he really just gave her this gun back? This made absolutely no sense from a tactical perspective and soon Roahn was nearly driven to a catatonic state trying to make heads or tails of the cyborg's thought process.

Perhaps finding a sick and contorted sort of pleasure in watching Roahn trying to figure it all out, Aleph silently watched the quarian find her own conclusions while he started to plod back and forth upon the dais while the Reaper acted as his agent of chaos in the background. A glowing spray of molten starship hull peeked around his helmet in a hellish cloud.

"**And there you have it. The entire picture laid before you. A resolute spectacle of the galaxy in reconstruction. There is nothing left to reveal to you, Roahn'Shepard. You know of the Monolith. Now you know of the Reaper. Everything is now locked into their fated course—there is no stopping it. This is the modern galaxy your father envisioned. His dream made manifest.**"

"_What have you done?_" Roahn could only whisper, her mouth struggling to form words.

"**I've given you everything you need to make your next choice with a clear mind. Will your desire to cast aside your self-preservation and those of the people you care about come into play?"** Aleph made a menacing gesture, a tilt of his hand, suggesting that Roahn had a measure of free will still left to play. **"Or will you step aside and watch the creation of a galaxy at peace mold together in a fateful equilibrium? I have a feeling that you will make the choice you know beyond the shadow of a doubt is the right one."**

Roahn cradled the pistol in her hands, unsure of what to do. An icy hand seemed to be closing around her heart, strangling the three-pronged beat as she helplessly listed her gaze from Aleph to her father. She could still hear Shepard's low cries as he bled. _Keelah_, he sounded like he was in so much pain…

Skye inched around, now putting herself between Aleph and the quarian, as she moved closer to Roahn, arms outstretched.

"Ro…"

Roahn gave a recoil before Skye could even complete her sentence. The human using her pet name, the name her own mother had once used for her, felt so wrong in this place, at this time!

Tilting her head, Skye put on a warm smile as she approached, her fingers slowly moving to form a cup, a tender caress.

"…Love, we've been given another chance, you and I. I… it… this is something that happens only in fairy tales… but it's happened to us. We can leave this place the way we are now. Together." She gestured towards the front of the room, eyes heavy with emotion. "Look out that window, Ro. It's all burning. What could we possibly do to stop it? We can _live_, that's what."

Something had paralyzed Roahn to her current spot in this room. She forgot how to breathe, how to think. All she could see was the looming presence of Skye, threatening to fill her vision, fingers reaching out to lovingly touch her mask.

"You've given too much of yourself to let this all go to waste," Skye breathed. "We can help build a new galaxy, like Aleph said. All we have to do is watch. Just… come with me… and we'll watch. Together."

The human stopped moving, elbows bent just enough that if she were to extend, she could touch Roahn.

"Roahn…" Skye continued to smile. "Come here. Come with me."

And, with a gradual effort, the human's fingers moved closer and closer, edging towards the chin of Roahn's helmet. A reassuring gesture. One that spoke volumes of caring, of love. Lifetimes of pain and sadness to be overcome by kindness and joy. Skye wanted to touch her former lover, right at her face—the most intimate place a quarian could be touched, and whisper to her ear that everything was going to be all right, imagining her lips millimeters away from Roahn's skin.

Fingers came closer… closer… closer…

A loud _CRACK_ punctuated the air in the next instant, right before Skye's fingers could make contact.

Skye was the only one to jump between the two.

The human dropped her hands away as though Roahn's helmet radiated a searing heat. Her head, now less than a foot away from the quarian's began to minutely tremble. Roahn's wide eyes looked at Skye's uncomprehending ones, a sad realization approaching them both.

Skye's lips fluttered and a dark red bubble burst between them. A crisp waft of smoke began to rise in the dead space that separated their bodies. Skye shook as she looked down and saw the pistol in Roahn's hand, heat warping softly from its barrel.

Then she looked down at herself and saw the growing stain of blood spread out from her stomach. A ragged and damp blemish. She clasped her hands to the hole that had ripped through her abdomen.

Now comprehending, the human tortuously looked up, warm liquid now beginning to gurgle from her mouth in a slow and agonizing sprawl. The quarian stared back at Skye, frozen in regret for nostalgic times past, of old memories soured in mere seconds by the human's recent actions. They held onto this fragile connection for what seemed like an eternity, the gaze between their eyes. They shared pain, remorse, and regret. Volumes of regret.

"B-But…" Skye stammered, tears grouping at the corners of her eyes, "…but… b-b-but I… I love…"

Standing still, the astonished Roahn could only shake her head, finger still upon the trigger of her weapon.

"I don't think I ever could."

Skye's face completely fell apart in absolute grief, a singular sob emanating past bloody lips.

Her knees then gave out. She crumpled where she had been standing. Skye fell still at Roahn's feet, a dark pool slowly spreading from her body.

Breathing heavily, Roahn edged away from where Skye had fallen, not wanting the woman's blood staining her boots. Each inhalation was absolute torture. Her pulse pounded her head, a fervent taunt that filled her mind with a choking red haze.

She turned to look at Aleph, who was still standing placidly by the window, casually observing as though he had expected this outcome to occur.

Mournfully, she stared up at him, the dead form of her friend already vanishing from memory. Forced out by a turbulent and unfocused mind.

"Beyond the shadow of a doubt…" she mustered.

Understanding, Aleph dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"**Beyond the shadow of a doubt."**

There was a racket as Roahn let the pistol fall from her fingers. An orange wildfire then blazed from her left arm, appearing to ignite that side of her body, revealing the vaguest of outlines through her mask—an infuriated gaze, violent eyes, and a savage mouth.

Roahn held her omni-sword aloft, the point directed straight at Aleph's chest.

"I'm going to murder you," she growled through clenched teeth.

The air beckoned to her with a thrumming emptiness.

The Reaper unfurled beyond the window, in bloom.

Skye's glassy eyes stared sideways upon the ground.

With a warlike howl, Roahn suddenly sprang forward in a bitter charge, weapon singing as it carved the air while trailing frantic embers. An unfurling sheet of fire streamed in the quarian's wake, billowing with the fury of its wielder, as she closed upon the demon who haunted her dreams.

* * *

**A/N: It took me 34 chapters but now I finally managed to come up with a chapter that had less than 10k words in it. Good news for you guys, I guess. Less words means less time to write.**

**Now, let's see where this goes...**

**Playlist:**

**Skye's Tale**  
**"Aliens"**  
**Neil Davidge**  
**Halo 4 (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**The Reaper Summoned**  
**"Essence Draining"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (Original Music from the Netflix Series)**

**Umbra Gathers/Korridon Stays**  
**"Mount Fuji"**  
**Hans Zimmer, Bryce Jacobs, and Martin Tillman**  
**Rush (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Skye Bows Out**  
**"Watch The World Burn"**  
**James Newton Howard**  
**The Dark Knight (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


	35. Chapter 35: Judgment

"_To that aspiring chemist that created that 'impressive' thesis on our blog, we're just going to say that you've now ruined Rosh Hashana for several of our staff. So, thanks for that."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Morningtide_

With a howl that could shatter the night sky, Roahn crossed the last few meters with a ferocious leap, omni-sword a blinding spear as she lifted it above her head, ready to crash it down and cleave her enemy's head in two. Her weapon seemed to suck in the exploding light outside, transferring its incandescence into its pointed form; an emblem of pain and suffering, spewing all the vile hatred the quarian had in her body.

An extension of her being, ready to unleash all her anger in bold, savage, blows!

There was a powerfully low thrum that seemed to shake the lower registers of Roahn's hearing. With a crimson wave, Aleph smoothly brought his left arm up in a clean block before the quarian could touch him, his large hexagonally-skewed blade blazing with simmering energy, emitting from microscopic magnetic flecks churning and vibrating within the wide field.

Roahn's sword crashed against Aleph's with a vibrant crackle of electricity. Aleph's arm did not budge, the result of which nearly sent the quarian reeling as her own blow halted in place. Her prosthesis had damn near shattered from such a brazen attack—it was still vibrating from the impact. What little shreds of her confidence remained was now reduced to cinders in an instant. She looked up at the bulbous helmet fearfully.

Aleph tilted his head, a vague attempt at finding the humor in the situation perhaps, before he unexpectedly shoved his arm. A disarming blow. Roahn was unprepared for the move and tripped over her own feet as she was pushed away, sending her sprawling across the cold black tiles. She unleashed an angered snarl, her fingers clawing upon the slippery floor while her feet scrambled in an effort to find purchase. Her omni-sword, sloppily handled, laid scorch marks down on the ground in frantic lines, bringing the smell of roasted granite through the olfactory filters to reach Roahn's nose—an acrid scent.

A part of her expected to feel the fiery sting of Aleph's weapon as he would undoubtedly seek to rake it across her back, ending it all in an instant. But such a blow never came. In fact, as Roahn finally rose to her feet again, she noticed that Aleph had been standing at a safe distance the entire time, waiting for her to resume their duel, succumbing to the gentlemanly inclination to not attack an opponent while they were down on the ground. The cyborg was partially lit with his back to the window, half doused in shadow, with the other half seemingly ablaze.

The fact that Aleph was choosing now to embody himself as the sporting type did not give Roahn much comfort. On the contrary, it merely angered her to no end.

She unleashed another infuriated roar before she charged at Aleph again, this time holding her sword parallel to the ground to deliver a fearsome lunge. But the man, ever prescient, seemed to anticipate such a move and fluidly sidestepped while he merely brought his own blade around to divert Roahn's attack, leaving the quarian suddenly bolting at nothing after their swords had merely exchanged pleasant touches before disengaging, leaving the stink of ozone in their wake.

Roahn felt a withering sensation in her gut and her muscles suddenly began to cramp up. She had the fearful idea that the person she was facing off against was a foe far beyond her abilities to conquer. He was taller, stronger, and more experienced with a weapon. How could she hope to weather the storm against such a man?

She gulped heavily, which brought her some relief. Mere madness could stymie her fear… for now.

Sizzling energy already became loosed on its next irresistible arc as the combatants stepped forward. Roahn swung her sword in a quick slash, more out of defense than aggression, but was in for a surprise when her sword cut through nothing but air. She had the faintest glimpse of Aleph for a split-second, but an aquamarine glimmer seeped over his body, outlining it in a bold fashion and… he was suddenly gone. Vanished.

Roahn stumbled at the terminus of her swing and searched frantically in all directions as she stood upon the platform, now the sole occupant. The gargantuan form of the Reaper began to blot out the battle behind the windows as it continued to bellow its hellish portents.

The quarian started to hyperventilate in her confusion. How? How could she suddenly be all alone here?

A thought then came to her. Her eyes widened in realization.

"Oh, sh—"

A heavy blow suddenly bashed the back of her helmet, sending her careening forward yet again. Something—someone—had clobbered her when her back had been turned! Roahn heavily staggered, tears coming to her eyes in pain and shock, ears ringing from a swiftly crashing noise.

Mercy was afforded to her once more with no one rushing to attack the temporarily discombobulated Roahn. The quarian scrambled to grab any semblance of her senses back, her balance woefully screwed up as she teetered in place, the world angling heavily. She held up her arms, the effort nearly making her throw up, as she turned to square down Aleph again.

Her eyes caught a glimpse of the small turquoise cylinder, embedded in Aleph's arm, slowly retreat in a slow spiral back down into his armor after it made a light warbling sound. _His teleportation device_.

Now things were starting to make sense. Aleph had taken a portion of the Monolith's power for himself for his more personal uses, she remembered.

_I need to get that thing off him. I won't win if he keeps moving around the room!_

Caustic heat streaming from her arm, the quarian now slowly treaded forward, gradually increasing her pace until she came to a full-bore sprint. She lowered her blade at an angle, prepared to slice diagonally upward to cut Aleph from hip to collarbone. But again, there was a frantic pulsation of sea-green energy and Aleph was gone again. Damn it!

Roahn trained her ear for… a trembling pulse! An oscillation of vacuum! To her left!

The quarian whipped around just in time to catch Aleph's crushing blow with her own as he rapidly stormed in, seemingly out of thin air, eerily quiet. For a moment, their weapons were mated in a grating lock. The crossed blades made an angry "X" of flame upon Aleph's mirrored helmet. Guzzling sparks dribbled _en masse_ between the two of them. Roahn was snarling like a dog, teeth bared, her face a pale but frightful mask underneath her glass barrier. Aleph remained steadfast, no breath apparent, no indication at all that he was exerting himself.

"**You're depending on reflex and instinct to guide your hand,"** Aleph hissed, but made no effort to break the lock. He backed Roahn up a step as he pressed, violent light and shadows from the disparity of the windows heavily distorted his outline and features, turning him into an elemental demon before the quarian's eyes. **"Intriguing. All this time and still you fall victim to overconfidence instead of acquired talent."**

Aleph then dipped his shoulder without waiting for the quarian to respond, gave the quietest grunt, and flung Roahn away as if she was nothing but a toy.

She hit the ground hard and tumbled, eyes locked open with utter astonishment. Something in her enviro-suit became damaged or dislodged during her violent roll—multiple system disconnection warnings now sprang up orange upon her HUD. This time, Aleph had no time for antics. He followed the quarian and curved his terrifyingly wide blade towards her as she was still rolling on the diamond-hard ground. Roahn, knowing there was nothing she could do to dodge the attack, raised her sword out of instinct, but the raking blow from the monster nearly tore her prosthesis out of its socket. Simulated pain lanced up her arm, around her shoulder, and settled in at a point at her brain, like a cancerous node. Her breath had been completely smashed from her lungs—she emitted a wail of agony that echoed lowly in the chamber.

Raising his blade high to part her head from her shoulders, Aleph readied for a final attack, but Roahn recovered quicker than he expected—she lashed out and attempted to cut at his ankles, forcing him to slice his weapon back down to intercept it before she could do any damage. That gave the quarian enough time to spring back to her feet, but that did not grant her a moment's rest for very long, for Aleph now charged in to deliver a series of chops that flashed down with savage power. Roahn had to leap aside to dodge the blows that she could, for the ones she blocked felt like they were going to shatter every bone in her body. Cold metallic intent could steamroll over her still mostly organic body, she knew with a passing sadness.

Ducking underneath what looked like a haphazard swing, Roahn sucked in a breath and lunged once more, hoping to pierce the cyborg's ribcage, but the poorly derived attack had been nothing but a feint from Aleph. His blade then _rotated_ upon his wrist—a rare programming quirk of an omni-sword—moving at the speed of an engine turbine, and smashed the quarian's weapon away with a casual waving gesture, as if he thought this was all nothing but a game.

Stumbling away, Roahn had to double over to get her breath back. Aleph remained still upon the center of the dais, yet his blade still continued to revolve, propeller-like, at the fixed point upon the back of his hand. The stuttering whirls from the sword produced a strobe-like effect that made it seem like Aleph was moving in stop-motion. A loud _whap-whap_ sound emitted from the rapid rotations of his weapon. He showed no sign of tiring, for how could a machine like him tire at all? There was no weariness that Roahn could perceive, no lethargy of the limbs. The crushing seriousness was dragging her lower and lower and as she realized that Aleph had indeed been right, yet again.

_No! No! I can't think like that! I can't let him win! I want—no, I need—to save dad!_

"**You have succumbed to the idea that, if you walk away victorious today, your nightmare will finally end,"** Aleph carefully spoke, his words having a deathly weight to them. **"I suppose we'll find out together whether there's some truth to that."**

"Then let's not keep ourselves waiting," Roahn spat, trying to ignore the kaleidoscope of error warnings that were filling her visor with their annoying warblings. She quickly switched them all off to clear her view.

A tortured bellow then ripped through her throat as the quarian embarked on one more tragic charge, to demolish her perceived image of impotence and destroy the monster that had been dominating her life for the better part of a year. The clash of blades ripped through air and space in vibrant shockwaves as Roahn smashed her weapon upon Aleph's over and over again, the feeling in her fingers abruptly diminishing to nothing. She raised her aching arms, tears now flowing freely down her face, her exhaustion fighting to claim her body and soul. A well-placed sweep on her part moved Aleph's sword a few millimeters away from his body—a few millimeters that Roahn could very well use.

_RAAAGGHHH! _Roahn screamed inside her head, throat too dry to give a shout voice as she plunged her blade towards Aleph's neck.

Another flash of aquamarine enveloped her foe's body and extinguished itself in the blink of an eye, just before she could make contact!

No! Aleph had teleported again!

The faint buzzing of an omni-sword being ignited now came from Roahn's right, but she was too tired to face it right away. Slowly, haltingly, she began to turn and summarily paid the price as a razor-thin arc from Aleph's sword sliced next to her right arm. Instinctively, she jerked away, but it had been after the fact. Was she hit? Her whole body was numb. She was too hopped up on adrenaline to feel anything.

_Shit. Too close._

In response, Roahn made a clumsy swing to ward off Aleph, but he saw right through her paltry moves. He waited until she had begun her backswing so that he could dart forward and land a solid thump with his closed fist (his weaponless hand) right on the side of her helmet. That had the effect of completely taking the fight out of the quarian. Her legs crumpled underneath her and she sprawled out on the ground, her limbs turned to jelly.

A bed of stars twinkled over her head, but Roahn knew that had to be a trick of her light. Or maybe it was brain damage. She almost succumbed to her resignation, to simply give in and lay upon the ground knowing just how badly she was outclassed despite all her preparations for this day. A solemn chant, a warrior's prayer, beat resolutely in her head. Old Khelish blessings, mantras from another life. Anything to give her strength, give her hope.

To get her to rise.

This was what she had been waiting for, wasn't it? Come all this way only to give up? What kind of soldier was she if surrendering in such a dishonorable fashion held residence in her head?

_No… no_. Roahn turned and slapped her left hand on the ground so hard it shattered the tile underneath with a fearsome crack! She promised herself that she would die on her feet, not on her knees. Only after the last fiber of defiance had been eradicated from her body would she accept her end. Her eyes became venomous, taking on a sickly sheen. She beat the ground again with a closed fist, the noise knocking around the walls like the pounding of a war drum.

_Take that bastard's head off!_

Hiding her groans, Roahn grimaced as she shakily returned to her feet for the umpteenth time. Gingerly, she touched the area upon her helmet where Aleph had struck her. A white spiderweb of angry cracks at the corner of her mask felt ragged, almost like roughened enamel. She could not perceive any loss of pressure from inside her helmet—the glass was still holding. She was still safe from a stray sickness. If today was going to be her last, she would make damn sure that a cough would not be the cause of it.

She transferred her sword to her right hand, thinking she might glean an advantage that way. A newfound strategy was of little comfort—she was fighting a battle just to stay upright, for she was so hurt and exhausted. Aleph undoubtedly knew that as he stood by, studying her intently, gauging his next moves to match her ferocity.

She walled off her vision, placing all her focus on the person directly in front of her.

She forced herself to forget about her father groaning in pain in the background.

She forced herself to forget about the lifeless body of Skye upon the ground to her right.

Everything hinged on this moment, what her entire consciousness had been erecting as a shrine to her tenacity. Doubt _had_ to depart from her mind, else it would mean her destruction. All the detail upon Aleph's armor was visible to her. Her heart pumped churning fire into veins while every breath felt as fresh as a winter's breeze.

Roahn mouthed a curse in a human tongue towards her enemy. The foulest one she could possibly conjure. The breathily placed syllables upon her lips felt joyous, bringing a new surge to her blood.

Aleph impossibly twitched—had he _seen_ her mouth move through her mask? Half-blackened from shadow, the powerful cyborg stepped forward, a titian glare searing off the corner of his helmet, momentarily blinding Roahn. He raised his blade to unleash his savage cuts again, preparing to show the quarian the full extent of his brutality—

—but in the next instant, he vanished in another schizophrenic flicker! Another feint!

Immediately, Roahn thumbed a control and her omni-sword _slid_ along an invisible rail to extend from the back of her elbow! There was no time for her to think, to take stock of her actions. Only to respond to pure, chemical instinct. And her instincts were telling her that Aleph was right…

…_behind her!_

With a deafening roar of defiance, Roahn thrust her whole body backwards as soon as she perceived the telltale thrum of electronic disturbance at her back. At the same time, she jerked her elbow behind her in a powerful surge, using her velocity to amplify the strength of her blow. She was rewarded with a severe-sounding _crunch_ and the blade attached to her arm became rigid.

Knowing she was leaving her back exposed, Roahn closed her eyes, tensing herself for the answering strike.

But no agony imparted itself on her.

In disbelief, she looked behind her. Aleph was indeed to her back, just as she had anticipated, but there was another surprise in store for her. She looked down at his abdomen, where her sword was currently buried halfway in his gut. Molten slag poured out from the sides of the wound. A tremble of orange light at Aleph's back wavered, his cloak sizzling where it brushed up against the pointed energy field.

She had completely run him through with her weapon!

The urge to let out a triumphant laugh came and went in a flash as Roahn quickly realized that Aleph was still standing with his own strength. Actually, he did not appear to be hurt at all. The towering cyborg, weapons deactivated, merely looked down at the sword embedded in his body, plaintive and somewhat amused, acting as if he had only suffered a tiny scratch and not what should have been a finishing blow.

Terror and rage flashed across Roahn's face. That stab should have punctured his organ sac. How was he still alive?!

_This thing can't be killed!_

Demonstrating that point, Aleph lashed out, his fist landing just below Roahn's kidneys. She broke free from Aleph, her sword trailing stray bits of molten metal as it withdrew from Aleph's body. She nearly stumbled to the ground yet again. The quarian grasped at the afflicted area. _Why did he go easy on me?_ A cyborg like him should have been easily able to break her back without a second thought. Yet she was still mobile, still alive. But for what? And why?

As the quarian turned towards Aleph, the large being lifted his arms slightly, the cut in his armor now trailing fine smoke as a black gash upon the center of his polished protection beckoned endlessly. His blade materialized around his left arm once more, crackling and sparking.

"**You act without comprehension,"** Aleph chided. **"Desperation fuels your every move. Curious, you don't even know why you're fighting anymore. You refuse to submit to the truth that you have been at my mercy ever since you stepped onto my vessel. I could destroy you where you stand with nothing but a thought!"**

Small, battered, and terrified out of her mind, Roahn wavered in place as she willed her numb arms to respond. She held her ground, a small island awaiting a storm looming overhead, anticipating the breaking of waves upon her eroded cliffs.

Aleph confidentially strode forward, blade angled out and forward. He intended for this to continue.

And Roahn was still keen to answer.

The enormous cyborg quickly came upon her with a hard strike, a downward slash so savage it was as if he was clearing a path through a thick jungle grove. Roahn blocked the attack, but the impact nearly hammered her feet through the stone floor! She imagined shockwaves spiraling out from her heels, the polished rock underneath cracking where she stood. A strangled gasp burst from her throat, her eyes stinging with the effort as Aleph pushed down on his own blade as their weapons seemed glued together, almost casually forcing her own weapon back down upon its wielder, looking to scorch Roahn with its magmatic edge.

Roahn's tender limb quaked as her muscles began to weaken. She opened her eyes wider and wider, her fear obvious. Aleph did not mutter a single hiss of pleasure as he kept pushing his sword further down, still holding back, even after all this.

A glimpse of movement at Aleph's right. A flat blur of gray. Roahn's brain swam in molasses, viewing everything in slow-motion. Another debilitating punch—he was looking to knock her out or disfigure her further. The blow was arcing towards her face. Slow, too slow. Was this how she was going to die? The human notion that one's life flashed before their eyes prior to a deathly experience was apparently commonplace in their species—so, was this such an experience that warranted such an unconscious reaction? A serene calm almost took the quarian over. It felt like she had dipped herself into a vat of honey, for everything suddenly felt warm and spongey.

Why not let Aleph finish the job? It could all be over in a second. Who knows, it might not even hurt at all? She would certainly never hurt again, after today.

_Just relax_, the inclination whispered.

_Relax._

_Relax._

_Relax._

"_NOOOO!"_ Roahn bellowed right as she whipped up her prosthetic hand, splayed her fingers wide open, and moved her limb towards the onrushing projectile.

And caught Aleph's fist.

There was a tremendous clang that reverberated as an almost operatic ringing. Metal smashed against metal. Even the noise from the outside battle seemed to have been drowned out by the simple but powerful tone.

Yet Roahn stood tall. Her eyes brimmed with an unspeakable emotion, one that radiated a fury that hell itself could not contain. Her three fingers clenched upon Aleph's appendage. Hard. She could _feel_ his hand begin to distort under her grip as she clamped with all her might!

For the first time, Aleph seemed truly astonished. His body language went completely stiff, lacking all the usual gravitas, all of the superiority having vanished as his precious calculations had not accounted for such an eventuality. He looked down at his fist, captive in Roahn's, and made a frantic push to overwhelm the quarian. But she did not budge. She did not let go. He could not move her limb an inch. The sword upon his other arm forgotten, Aleph now focused all his efforts to move his fist forward even a centimeter, his right arm now rattling as he increased the pressure further and further.

But the quarian would not yield.

"Surprised, _bosh'tet?_" Roahn whispered as she looked up at her panicked tormentor. "In some small way, you made me what I am today."

She then painstakingly began to rotate her wrist, the strength of her prosthesis overwhelming what Aleph had to offer. A horrid noise of grinding mechanisms gritted out a horrific drone. His hand could only go along with the direction she was wrenching him in—slowly, she maneuvered his arm out of alignment, the quarian's fingers now leaving three heavy indentations upon Aleph's fist. Roahn gave a push of her own, the hydraulics in her prosthesis overcoming the force her enemy was exerting as she held the cyborg's limb wide, away from his body. Aleph glanced at his helpless appendage and back to Roahn, the quick darts of his limitless gaze revealing a long-due confusion.

The two of them locked gazes. Soft quarian eyes. Unreadable polish of metallic will. Trapped in their prison of hurtful intent, together they stared at each other through the quiet, both managing to obtain a fleeting understanding of their opponent, a rare glimpse that could only last for as long as their stares held, for such cognizance was doomed to have a half-life, vanished from the breaking of such intimate perception.

Roahn stared at Aleph, even as her body automatically and mechanically moved, seemingly of its own accord. Her omni-blade gave a firm wrench and jostled Aleph's own weapon away. Sword free, the quarian exhaled only a slow breath as a curtain of burnt copper flames whisked between the two of them, her sword singing as it trailed through the arc of her swing. There was only determination in her gaze as her blade surged on through empty air, hitting home with a flourish as her _sehni_ rippled in the air from the speed of her attack.

Ultramarine sparks then popped and flared as Roahn's sword sliced its way through Aleph's arm as easily as one would carve through a tender roast. The globules of fried and molten metal hung in the air, blending with the cool blue color of her mask. She had never even felt her weapon make an impact at all, for she had made her cut so savagely.

Her prosthetic fingers then released a second later, allowing Aleph's severed arm to fall heavily to the ground, the sheared end still spitting white-hot sparks and stiff branches of smoke.

Liberated from Roahn's grip, Aleph stuttered backwards as he glanced at the stump of his right arm dumbly. Flickers of dead electricity jittered from the severed wire ends—a bloodless wound. His mimetic visage betrayed no obvious signage, but a smooth tide of humility seemed to befall him as he stared at his injury in consideration. The entirety of his veil of arrogance had disintegrated around him, shattered with one clean stroke of a sword.

"**Extraordinary…"** he mumbled, barely loud enough for Roahn to hear.

Frozen in her own astonishment, Roahn was doubled over nearby as she could scarcely believe what she had just accomplished. But the nature of her revelry was doomed to fade—she still needed to finish the job, once and for all.

With that in mind, the quarian pressed forward for perhaps the final time, sword wavering upon her arm as she raised it high, looking to split Aleph's head wide open with a sickening blow! He was still gazing upon his stump, perversely petrified, seemingly unaware of the approaching woman that sought to kill him.

Roahn's mind was as flat and barren as a salt plain as she swung her blade downward, throat parched and aching. This was it. This was the end. A flash of memory swam through her vision. Peaceful waves. Her mother. Her father. Embracing and smiling at her.

Would they be proud of what she had become?

Curving downward, Roahn's sword cleaved through the air in its fateful trajectory, looming larger and larger upon the helmet of her target. Sinew and muscle throbbed. Nerves fired razor-sharp bolts. Less than a second and it—

With a wrenching sound, a gnawing of grinding noises, the sword crunched as it bit into something firm. It did not pass through easily and stayed stuck right where it had made contact.

But Aleph remained standing. A far cry from lying in pieces at her feet, come to think of it.

The quarian's eyes widened. Aleph had _caught_ the blade in his remaining hand! A humongous gauntlet, palm silvered and dashed with obsidian accents, gripped the weapon with little heed to its heat or sharpness. The sword jittered in his metallic palm, searing noises and motes of angry sparks fizzing in reaction where energy met matter. A glowing knife-point blazed a hollow reflection at the corner of his helmet, a comet streak held back by sheer will.

Tried as she might, Roahn could not jerk the sword out of Aleph's grip. She began grunting in a feral manner as her attempts to abort her attack failed in sequence. Her fear began to heavily spike again, a malignant panic intrigued at the possibility of possessing her once more.

There was no sense of vile entertainment that now inhabited Aleph's aura. No quiet ruminations or fleeting character examinations. It was apparent that what his body had undergone should not have been made to happen in the first place. A severe indignation overtook him. An animal infuriation. He no longer looked at Roahn and saw a toy to be played with.

Now, he could look upon her as an enemy of equal measure.

With a cruel measure of finality, Aleph tightened the grip his fingers exerted upon Roahn's sword. The quarian could only watch as cracks of light exuded from the blade itself, splintering open wider and winder until, in a gust of golden brilliance, the blade shattered into nothingness!

Caught completely by surprise, Roahn began to backpedal as she simultaneously pummeled her sword's haptic control over and over again—a useless effort, it would take several minutes to recharge after being overloaded so thoroughly. Minutes that she did not have.

Aleph wasted no time. He closed the gap between them in seconds, no weapon in hand. It was as if he had launched himself upon considerably diminutive quarian. He was quiet as death as he raised his left fist high, not bothering to extend his sword, preparing to deliver a massive hammerfist upon Roahn's face!

Roahn shouted as she frantically brought her left arm up, a hexagonal shield igniting in a flat barrier from her omni-tool. At least that chipset still worked! There was barely any time for her to take stock of her situation, for the great lump of metallic force landed upon the shield—and not a moment too soon—as Aleph's punch rippled the great shield the quarian had erected. She cried out as her wrists ached from the punishment, nearly dropping to a knee. _Something was wrong_, she could only think as her mind reeled. _Something was very wrong_.

The quarian was not afforded any time to recover. The tireless cyborg flashed his remaining arm again, momentarily blocking light surges from the windows, as he swung his fist again, and again, and again, in his brutal circles. He never faltered in his pace or lost any ground. His heavy knuckles smashed against Roahn's shield less than a second apart. The barrier oscillated with every impact, the fluctuations becoming so violent that Roahn knew the tech was straining to hold. She did not need to look at the steadily dwindling meter in the low corner of her mask. She was losing power with each blow… but could do nothing about it.

Aleph had been transformed from the calm and peerless villain into something more grotesque and monstrous. He was so fast and so strong that he never offered Roahn an opportunity to go on the offensive. The cyborg uttered no words as he slammed his fist down in his repeated strikes, crumpling the quarian's omni-shield as he strove to break her, to drive her to her knees and beg for mercy!

_Impossible_, Roahn's confused mind sought to comprehend as she continued to stagger in her retreat, Aleph always right on top of her. _He only has one arm left! How could this happen?!_

But she could not shy away from him. It was as if he was attached to her, the shadow extending from her heels. His repulsive form surged and lashed, laying down blow after blow. Sweat dripped down Roahn's eyes, her vision graying. Everything hurt. A choking sensation began to close over her throat. She felt faint.

The quarian's heel nearly edged off a shallow step as she reached the edge of the dais. Involuntarily, she looked back.

Aleph saw an opening. He gave a brutal backhand to Roahn's unprotected flank. She was barely able to swing her shield around in time to catch it, but her orientation of the shield was awkward and when the cyborg's blow finally did connect, Roahn crumpled inward as her entire body _flexed_ in the direction of the hit.

She felt a couple of ribs snap. Tears now flowed from her eyes as she made a tortured gasp. She felt like vomiting.

Unrelenting, Aleph swung again. The back of Roahn's shield bashed against her helmet. Another blow drove it against her collarbone. The bruises accumulated. She could feel herself bleeding underneath her suit.

The demon, intent on bludgeoning Roahn into a pulp, unleashed another overhead pummel. Roahn, gathering her wits in time, was just able to bring her shield up to absorb the attack, though with catastrophic consequences.

The force of that last attack had been so great that it had completely pushed Roahn's stance downward, buckling her joints. There was a slight twinge and a jolt of pain right before the quarian felt her right heel completely shatter. One second it was fine… and in the next, she could feel it let go.

There was a tremendous crackling sound.

Roahn screamed as she dropped to a knee, a white-hot knot at her foot producing a blistering agony. Sweat, tears, and spittle streamed from her face, splattering the inside of her mask. The chamber was breathless, silent, as the dark absorbed her cries. All of the young woman's plans died ignominious deaths in her head. Her goals, her motivators, all gone. Now there was only the pain and the direct threat looming next to her. There was nothing left except her own survival.

There was a deep gurgle that seemed to emit right next to her ear. Aleph had ignited his omni-sword for the final time, intent on finishing this. A blood-red glow filled the room, washing over the walls in ominous hues.

Looking through her cracked visor, Roahn stared upward at the savagely warping blade now crashing her way. Only then did she finally understand that she never had any chance at all upon entering this ship. Aleph had been holding back his full ferocity the whole time, testing her, gauging if the strength of her will had a chance to match his.

Evidentially, she had never come close.

Feebly, the quarian raised her shield at the exact instant Aleph slammed his sword down. The weakened barrier crumpled and broke apart from the brutality of the blow. But Aleph's sword kept travelling. It moved past the dead zone where the barrier had existed and fluidly pushed its way through metal, wiring, servos, before finally exiting to be greeted by stale air again, a tail of gentle ignited flickers the bright color of sand sprinkling in its wake.

Roahn dimly stared as her prosthesis dropped away, cut off just before the elbow. She felt no pain for there were no nerves to damage. It was as if all the simulated sensations in that area had suddenly switched off, a binary conclusion torn from her own grasp.

A thick bar of light from the window fell upon the one-armed quarian as Aleph repositioned himself. She solemnly stared at the empty prosthesis that now lay before her knees, palm up, the area where it had been cut still smoldering and glowing a burnt orange.

Her enemy gave no gloat. No prideful crow of victory. Instead, he simply raised a foot and planted it in the middle of the paralytic quarian's chest. Flung through the air from the kick, she slammed against the last of the steps and rolled down them to reach the very bottom. The stump of her artificial arm made a clicking noise whenever it collided with the lustrous stone, as did her helmet. The quarian soon fell still as she slid to a stop at the foot of the wide and shallow steps, spread-eagled, bruised and broken.

There was a faint sound of liquid. Roahn slowly turned her head to find that her right arm had laid into a dark puddle. She lifted her arm and saw that the fabric at the back of her appendage was now colored a thick red. Blood. Looking over, the quarian was suddenly face-to-face with the dead eyes of Skye, who lay where she had initially crumpled, the human's front completely stained crimson from where Roahn's bullet had gone into her stomach.

Two betrayals. One for each person. Too bad it cost more for the human, overall.

As she looked into the lifeless gaze of what had been her friend, Roahn shook with an emotion deeper than fear. The quarian's body unintentionally rolled further into the pool of blood, clinging to her suit and coating her with what had been Skye's life.

_I did this_, Roahn thought as she could not tear herself away from the pleading look Skye had died with on her face. _You never changed, Skye. But I have. Yet… we've both ended up the same way, haven't we?_

She blacked out soon afterward.

* * *

A cold sensation, like chilled molten metal being poured into her brain, caused her to abruptly come to with a jerk and a gasp. The world flashed back into color—she had only been gone for a couple of seconds.

There was a subtle shift in light as the blurred outline of Aleph slowly descended the staircase to where Roahn lay. An alien perception seemed to orbit around him, as though he possessed his own temperature. A strong annoyance, or a fleeting animosity, warped from the damaged surface of his armor as he approached the quarian. Perhaps he was still collecting his thoughts on what to do with her after she had delivered such an insulting blow. His remaining fist, the sword wrapped around it, trembled and shook, fighting to hold his rage back.

"**Clearly you've progressed quicker than I had anticipated,"** she heard him speak as he stopped upon reaching the foot of the stairs. He lifted his sword halfway, almost considerately. **"A shame your education will not continue further."**

Aleph's image splintered into many as he inhabited the cracked corner of Roahn's helmet. He seemed to fragment and multiply, and an army of flaming afflictions worthy of the most vengeful cherubs raised, poised to split the air in two, the destruction seeking to claim Roahn as well.

There was nothing more she could do. No strength left she had that could save her. All she could do was watch.

Yet she squinted her eyes as she thought she saw a thin red line, almost invisible, punctuate the stillness of the air with a gentle flutter. The line seemed to settle upon Aleph's hand, resting as a bright red dot.

Aleph looked down at precisely the moment the heavy sniper round tore through his gauntlet, punching ruined servos and spilled lubricants right out from the back of his hand! The sword fizzled out with a pathetic cough, the soft noise drowned out by the rueful bang that titillated throughout the chamber a quarter-second later.

Both Aleph and Roahn looked up to view the same thing. The quarian rolled over onto her stomach, bringing distance between her and her would-be killer. She could scarcely believe her eyes as she beheld a wonderous sight. The frown on her mouth edged and finally crackled, lidding upwards into a smile of such gratitude that Roahn had no idea just how good it felt to complete such an action.

An array of five separate weapons held by five separate people had maneuvered themselves at the back of the room, the sights all squarely resting upon Aleph. Garrus had taken the helm, already in a crouch as his sniper rifle bled heat from the round he had just unleashed. At his flanks, Sam, Liara, Grunt, and Korridon steeled themselves purposefully, not a trace of fear evident on their features.

_Everyone…_ Roahn could have hugged them all had she full use of her limbs. _You're all here…_

Almost imperceptibly, Garrus nudged his head to the right, the sapphire glow of his eyepiece cutting through the gloom.

"Grunt?"

The krogan responded by yanking down on his weapon's secondary trigger. There was a serene puff, a hissing streak, and Aleph was suddenly flung backward, nearly up to the window as the concussive round smashed in the middle of his chest. The heavy cyborg skidded upon the floor, leaving white scratches to mark his path, a new dent fizzing and sparking upon his chestplate.

As the room exploded in fire and noise from the squad opening fire, Korridon dropped away from the group and hurried his way over to Roahn. He stumbled as he nearly tripped over Skye's body—his eyes widened in surprise and his expression dipped as he noticed the rather curious wound in the human's stomach, but he forced himself to disregard the corpse and instead headed over to his friend.

He dropped to a knee next to the quarian. "Roahn!"

The quarian groaned as she pathetically crawled over to the turian. "Hi, Korr…" she said weakly, finding that raising her head up was rather effortful. "Where… where's Aleph?"

"Everyone's taking care of him," he assured her.

She turned around to confirm for herself. Apparently Korridon had kept things modest—Umbra was certainly doing more than "taking care" of Aleph. Despite the cyborg being the product of the finest minds the Alliance had to offer at the time, even advanced cybernetics could scarcely stand up to pure, naked force in the hands of the best soldiers the galaxy had ever seen. Bullets pounded Aleph in chattering rows across his body, spraying sparks and bits of armor while forcing him back step by step. Incendiary rounds nicked parts of his cloak, catching it ablaze and soon turning it into a flaming sheet—the cyborg had to cast the burning trapping away. Disruptor bolts snuck between the panels on his body, playing havoc with the electronics there—holes bored by blinding lightning roasted their way through thick starship plating in an instant. Firebolts singed their way from these afflicted areas. Aleph was becoming a radiator of dangerous energy as these flickering shafts sizzled from his body, enveloping him in a field of his own creation.

Liara lowered her own weapon while the others were continuing to hammer away so that she could utilize her biotics against their foe. Gravity wells sprang up in tandem around Aleph, cutting off his retreat on all sides. Electricity and fire now made a tortured spiral around the monstrosity, while dark energy continued to furrow and build, particle missiles of its own shooting outward and crashing against the nearby walls of the room to reveal power cabling and gas lines behind thin paneling. The barely-controllable forces reached out and nicked these areas, severing the tubes and flooding the platform with heat and xenon gas.

Korridon looked back to Roahn. "Can you stand?"

"My right heel's useless. You'll need to support me for a little bit."

The turian helped hook Roahn's right arm over his neck before he very gingerly proceeded to stand back up. The quarian hopped next to him, but repatriated Korridon's shotgun from the slot at his back in the process. She pressed the grip of the weapon against her thigh so she could rack the slide, slotting in a fresh clip. With a careful toss, she caught the shotgun back in her grip with a fluid motion, limping heavily, but managing to stay upright.

Aleph roared in the background, body completely consumed by flame while bullets continued to batter him relentlessly. A terrifying noise, one amplified by electric feedback that seemed to char the bass ranges of his wordless howl.

"We need to get out of here," the turian urged, "this place is—"

But Roahn was not listening. Rather, she had reactivated her visor's HUD, disregarded all of the warning symbols that were blazing brightly like a city on fire, and zoomed in on one of the panels that Liara's attack had dislodged. She concentrated on two large white pipes—one of them had a massive leak and was spewing a light blue gas that collected upon the floor of the platform and slithered between Aleph's feet. She looked at the labels on the pipes. _Xe_. _O3_. A distant memory echoed tantalizingly.

"Xenon," she murmured as she recognized the leaking gas.

Korridon did a double-take. "What, Roahn?"

Slowly, Roahn levelled the shotgun in her remaining hand to suffice as a temporary answer. The hardness in her gaze returned as she gently lined up the weapon's notch with the paneling.

"Just something I end up reminding everyone. Xenon and ozone… don't mix well."

The shotgun kicked back as the trigger was pulled, but Roahn was able to comfortably catch the recoil despite only having one working arm. The array of buckshot screamed through the sky and punched a fist-sized hole into both pipes at the same time. It did not make a difference which pipe was breached first—both particulates collided with each other and with the moisture in the air to merge in a magnificent conflagration of blue flames in punishing cerulean waves. The tears in the pipes belched and erupted sideways columns of this powerful fire, sweeping over Aleph and igniting the unspent xenon at his feet. The top level of the platform exploded with a deafening eruption so loud it nearly overloaded Roahn's audio receptors. The flames roared, nearly reaching the ceiling, the sound like the caterwauling of a large feline. However, they quickly expended the fuel at their disposal and died back down to a dull simmer, arranged in circular smolders surrounding a blackened and crumpled figure.

Garrus and everyone else had stopped their firing as they watched the cooked outline of Aleph slowly stand back up. Ashes sloughed off him in flaky sheets. A fire underneath his shoulder plate continued to flicker. More sparks coughed from holes in his armor. Yet despite all that damage, he still managed to stand upright, as functional as ever.

"**Noble effort, from all of you,"** he said laudably, no trace of sarcasm present in his tone. His fingers on his remaining hand flexed and he rolled his neck, the first organic tic Roahn had seen him make. **"And still it was not enough."**

Ignoring him, Korridon nudged Roahn again. "We need to leave right now. We've got less than ten minutes until the nuke evaporates us all."

Hearing this, Aleph turned his head, helmet stained with carbon scoring.

"**Ah. I had **_**hoped**_** you'd find that in the battery."**

Everyone froze. No one dared breathe.

Aleph tilted his head as he surveyed the tableau of shocked faces before him. **"A distraction, nothing more. I allowed you to **_**think**_** that you had a trump card ready to deploy,"** he explained. **"Ordinarily, your efforts would have found success. But a W98 nuclear device contains a master slave code, a critical override possessable by only one user. When you had initially armed the device, I was immediately notified of your attempts to see this vessel destroyed. And a well-trained team like you would have thought to use every contingency at your disposal—clearly you thought the W98 was a boon to your plans. Perhaps you might have thought that I was sloppy enough to allow unsecured nuclear devices on board the **_**Morningtide**_**. Unfortunate, for you. Once you had departed the area, I deactivated the arming sequence. No time limit will dictate us today—I made sure of that."**

"You're going to want to retract that statement soon," Korridon blurted out.

Aleph rotated his head so quickly in the turian's direction that he very well could have broken the sound barrier. More crisps of ash fluttered and spiraled as they peeled from his armor, making loops in the still air.

"_Korr!_" Roahn frantically whispered in horror. What was he _doing_, taunting Aleph like this?!

But the turian's mandibles tightened in what looked like a grin, nothing but confidence brimming behind those eyes of his.

To Aleph, Korridon continued.

"Out of curiosity," the turian said somewhat mildly, as if he was opening a discussion into the weather, "did you think that the person who would presumably arm your bomb would not recognize the slave transmitter attached to the armature? If so, you probably also didn't believe that such a person would be capable enough to manually prime the connection between the stator winding coil and said transmitter, thereby restarting the countdown."

Roahn clutched at the man. "You're saying… we're still in danger from the nuke?"

Korridon shook his head, still keeping his eyes on Aleph. "Not in _grave_ danger. It'll still explode, but the explosion itself will be compressed. It'll just cut the stator winding from its power supply, but that would only create a simple short circuit. But that, in turn, would compress a quickly generating magnetic field. And when you compress a magnetic field in such a charged area, then… well…"

The fact that Aleph had yet to respond, his posture stiff and blank, told Roahn everything she needed to know about her foe's supposed omnipotence. Nary a flutter of movement lingered within the cyborg. Just simple mechanical confusion.

"Oh," Korridon remarked with a knowing smirk, "and that countdown I mentioned? Twenty minutes seemed a little long, so I lowered it. Lowered it quite a bit." The bloodied and frenzied turian then gurgled a tired laugh as he stared at Aleph's dumbstruck pose. "So, I'd say we _did_ use every contingency at our disposal… asshole."

As Korridon continued to smile, it seemed like the entire ship fell apart around him in the next moment.

Roahn could feel it first before the chaos truly happened. A whining shriek in her skull. A tender throbbing close to her temples. Irritation at her implant points. For a second, she had the frightening thought that Aleph had activated the Monolith again, but she continued to exist long after that thought had infiltrated her mind. Then a heavy pulsation rippled through her body, a feeling very much like being underwater while a large waved rolled by overhead. She steadied herself against Korridon, her breath catching in her throat.

The electromagnetic pulse, invisible to the eye, wreaked havoc upon any unshielded electric devices in its reduced range. The _Morningtide_, though externally shielded from such attacks, had no such protection from an interior detonation, thus every single system on board abruptly cut offline as the device down in the gun battery activated relatively harmlessly. Roahn and everyone else lurched on their feet as the artificial gravity quickly flickered off before the auxiliary systems groaned back on, only powering the most important components to the vessel. But the engines, without the main generators to power them, went permanently dark, causing the _Morningtide_ to aimlessly list in space.

Offline, the frigate drifted, a dead hulk and out of the fight.

Muffled thumps then began to resound all around them. Roahn whirled her head in the direction of each one as they happened. Clearly that pulse had done more damage than expected—stressed shipwide systems were now completely overloading from being swiftly shut down and brought back up again! Secondary explosions were now completely rippling through the hull!

One of these explosive waves now hurtled towards the chamber, announcing its presence through the halls with a dramatic but hushed boom… _boom_… BOOM… _BOOM!_

Still standing in front of the window, Aleph swerved to face the wall paneling closest to him just before it ignited in a tremendous blaze. The wall completely ripped itself apart as the inboard components melted down in a dramatic fashion, detonating outward with such force that it completely knocked Aleph off his feet! A berry-red explosion engulfed the cyborg for a moment before the intense pressure propelled him across the room, thrown by a godlike hand. A shockwave of flame and electricity surged throughout the room, sending shrapnel, columns of rebar, and debris flying in a deadly hail. Roahn and everyone else hit the deck, saving themselves as a long I-beam bounced over their bodies, gouging thick canyons in the ground as it passed them by.

The pandemonium subsided in the next few seconds as though there had never been any danger at all. Roahn hobbled back to her feet, this time without any assistance from Korridon, retrieving her shotgun from where she had dropped it.

The platform ahead of her, dotted with small fires, was empty. To the right, close to the Monolith, something riddled with broken paneling and reinforcing steel rested languidly. The wounded quarian limped her way over in that direction, breathing hard, eyes focused.

Her boot nudged something as she walked. She looked down. An arm, wreathed in charred armor, was resting in front of her. Roahn tilted her head, realizing that it was Aleph's. And… there was something strange about it. That aquamarine pylon, his teleportation device, was still lodged in its slot—extended from the port where it usually resided. Tentatively kneeling down, momentarily putting the shotgun on the floor next to the severed arm, Roahn reached out and gripped the strange creation. With a few tugs, the pylon popped out of the port, trailing a singular wire behind it. The quarian pocketed the device, not exactly knowing why she took the time to do such a thing, just that she figured it was better to possess such a tool rather than risk it falling back into her enemy's hands.

Shotgun soon back in hand, Roahn limped her way up the stairs and near the edge of the platform. Aleph's crumpled body, impaled by structural bars and pinned to the wall, was rather worse for the wear. He now lay in a sitting up position, too damaged to stand. The shredding cloud of shrapnel from the explosions had nicked several pieces of his armor away, exposing the skeletal configuration of his chassis underneath. One of his feet had been blown off as well—a puddle of synthetic fluid steadily dripped from the sheared hoses there. He looked smaller in this fashion, surprisingly feeble. A dangerous foe, finally brought low. Roahn quietly approached, keeping her weapon trained at his head while she held it against her hip.

Sensing that someone was close by, Aleph gingerly turned his head to face Roahn—a halting and jerky effort. A large piece of his helmet, cracked and melted, bent out of shape and tumbled away with a clatter, exposing what lay beyond the curved shield for Roahn's second glimpse at the man behind the curtain.

Only… what Roahn now saw underneath that helmet was _not_ what she had glimpsed before.

The elegant construction of what had been an exquisite melding of organic and synthetic tendencies to form a true hybridized form was not at all present. The dark and prescient stare of Aleph's ruined eyes did not meet Roahn's. Not this time. Instead, simplistic lenses atop a basic and black scaffold-like frame, a crude outline that approximated a human skull, lay buried underneath all that chrome. Exposed gears trilled light noises. Brightly colored wiring snaked around unwieldy joints. Tortured strands of light pronounced dramatic gaps in Aleph's head—the quarian could see right through it to the other side!

Her reality dashed away, it took all of Roahn's strength to not drop the gun she was fumbling in her hand.

"What… what is this?!"

"I… apologize, R-R-Roahn'Shepard," a scratchy voice burst from the fallen figure. The voice box had apparently been damaged from the explosion—the bass notes no longer modulated. "After all that has happened… b-between us… I have finally lied to you."

"You're not him," the quarian nearly became listless, her voice monotone. "You're not him. You're just a shell. Nothing but a drone!"

"Correct," the fake Aleph rasped as he struggled to move. He then gave a rough-sounding laugh as he took stock of the astonished and hurt quarian. "I wondered… if you would figure it out… eventually. This analogue has served its purpose… luring you all to this place. Such time and effort… to approximate its build with mine… and link its systems to my command. A perfect… surrogate. Unfortunately for you to discover… at no point, since you arrived, have I ever _been_ on this ship."

Lit by the drowning flickers of stray fires, the briefest outline of Roahn's face slanted cruelly as she gave a stiff groan before dragging herself forward, shotgun extended as she held out her arm to take aim.

"I won't even be taking this, will I?" she asked rhetorically, fighting to ward off the approaching march of bile and anger that threatened to spill over the dam she had erected for herself. "You _will_ tell me where you are. You can't resist someone hunting you. You need to have an antagonist for your work to have meaning! Tell me. Where are you?"

She shoved the barrel of the weapon into the face of the analogue.

"_Where are you?!_" she bellowed.

But the carbon copy, reflecting the movements of its true owner, had no reason to be afraid. No reason to quake underneath the steel gaze of the judgmental gun. An uncharacteristic laugh boiled from the fried voice box's—Aleph's real emotion scything through as he undoubtedly watched from afar, enjoying the spectacle of the ruination he had put to the quarian. It was all a game to him, like a film to be enjoyed without consequence.

"Far away," Aleph's words intoned. "Well out of your reach."

Roahn did not hesitate in pulling the trigger. The head of Aleph's replica blew apart in a fiery blast. Metal, oily fluids, and sparks split in a glistening blaze, silencing the synthetic construct. Blue flames flickered from the weapon and from the stump of the analogue's head, creating schizophrenic shadows as the proxy of her greatest enemy fell dark, no longer heeding the movements of a tortuous master.

* * *

The view outside the windows continued to tilt severely, now angling away from the battle to bring the gargantuan form of the Reaper into frame. The _Morningtide_ was still rudderless, at the mercy of the velocity it had been traveling at before its engines had been extinguished.

"We need to get out of here!" Garrus called as he waved everyone over to the door. "This thing's going to crash into that Reaper in the next few minutes!"

Roahn looked back out the window, not paying the headless form of Aleph's surrogate any more attention, saw that Garrus was correct, and started to move down the platform until the _Morningtide's_ haywire electronics began to play up again. A sizzling blue barrier, a familiar sight at this point, cut the room in half as the frigate's electronics became stuck in an infinite reboot loop, sending false signals to certain subroutines. Roahn stalled as she suddenly found herself on one side of the shield, while everyone else was on the other. There were no gaps for the quarian to escape under—she was cornered in this room well and proper at this point.

"Go!" she waved off at the rest of her team as they undoubtedly sought to set her free. "I'll find a way off! Get clear before this thing smashes itself to pieces!"

Korridon shook his head millimetrically, though his body was already backing up in the direction of the door, torn between two directives, the logic of his mind and the inclination of his gut.

"Roahn, I—"

"_GO!_" Roahn screamed.

She did not watch to confirm if everyone had left, partly because she did not think she could bear to see the looks on their faces, thinking that they were leaving her behind. But there were things on this ship that she still had to do, promises that still could be kept.

The quarian hobbled over to the Monolith, where her father was still slumped against it. She halted near the edge of where she remembered the shield protecting the device had been erected—even in this ship's damaged state and with Aleph no longer here, was the barrier still up?

Roahn was not bound by hesitation for very long. A slow wash of marine light proceeded to drag itself over the Monolith from the ground up, a stark cut of illumination trailed by cube-like symbols that made up its tail. In seconds, the Monolith had completely disappeared, leaving Shepard lying upon the ground, motionless and bloodied.

_Damn it,_ Roahn realized. _He took that with him too._

It made sense that Aleph would take his ultimate weapon with him. Though he had not deigned to see the matter of the Tranquility in person, he was shrewd enough to not leave things to chance. Wherever he was in the galaxy, his creation was now back in his possession.

There was no time to bemoan that fact. Roahn raced over to her father (as best as she could with one good ankle) and dropped to her knees as soon as she made it. She ignited the omni-blade on her right hand and cut through the chains that wrapped around the human's body. Her lips then made a silent howl as she used the last of her strength to sit the bloodied man upright, his body seemingly weighing a ton in her exhausted state.

"R-Roahn…" Shepard muttered deliriously as his head lolled upon his daughter's collar. "Did you see… Roahn… have you seen…?"

"I'm here, dad," Roahn whispered to the man, fighting terribly not to cry right now. She sat herself down so that Shepard could lay against her. "_Shh_. I'm here. I'm here. I'm sorry it took me so long."

"She's…" Shepard's cracked lips coughed. "So much… I never knew… Roahn…"

Together in their tormented embrace, father and daughter merely existed while the windows foretold of the _Morningtide's_ approaching doom as it hurtled on course towards the impassive Reaper. Roahn felt her father splutter another cough against her—he was growing weaker. She looked out, past the Reaper, to the cold tendrils of space, and took in a total breath for the first time in quite a long while. As she did so, she slipped a hand into her pocket and withdrew the pylon she had liberated from Aleph's arm. It still shone green in her palm.

"Shh…" she soothed her father again. "Don't be afraid, dad. It's just us now. Close your eyes…"

She clipped the wire upon the pylon to a port at her side. It immediately registered in her omni-tool as a compatible device. A coordinate panel jumped out for her to make inputs.

"…think of home…"

Her three-fingered hand typed in a precise set of navigational codes, ones she had memorized from when she was a small girl. The panel took only a second to accept the codes and then lock them in. An ignition key soon appeared to her as a holographic button to push. Roahn wasted no time in starting the process.

"…and watch the sunrise with me."

Chartreuse brilliance began to stream all around them in a fury. It almost felt to Roahn as if she had suddenly been put under a heat lamp. She held on tightly to her father, his blood dribbling down her arm. Resting her head against his, she clamped her eyes shut, spoke words of comfort that only he could hear as the light…

…took them both with a wink!

They had both gone!

The _Morningtide_, emptied of life, merely continued on its fateful course and crumpled nose-first into the Reaper a minute later. The decks smashed together like a giant accordion, obliterating the finely-honed shape of the craft against the impenetrable armor of the gigantic metallic demon. The drive core, shredded to bits, bled purple-white flames for but a moment, igniting in a pathetic sputter that did little but darken the Reaper after it had exploding, distributing the last of the _Morningtide_ to the farthest reaches of the nebula.

The rest of the ships on either side, watching the chaos unfold, understood the developments in the battle to be heralding a wrap to the hostilities. Each fleet took what scattered forces they had and departed the area in all directions, scattering to the four corners of the galaxy to regroup and recover. The Alliance fleets warped out, then the hostile coalition forces, and finally the Reaper, leaving the dark nebula to ordain the new detritus belt that graced its boundaries.

* * *

**A/N: I can only convey my profound thanks for sticking with me this far. The final chapter will be posted shortly. I know this wasn't exactly the most lighthearted story to ever grace this site, but I can only hope you've enjoyed it, all the same. Thank you for reading and I look forward to seeing you all at the end.**

**Playlist:**

**The Fray (Aleph Battle Pt. I)**  
**"Trenches"**  
**Ludvig Forssell**  
**Death Stranding (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Wounds (Aleph Battle Pt. II)**  
**"The WLF"**  
**Mac Quayle**  
**The Last of Us Part II (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**

**Umbra Arrives/Aleph Burns**  
**"What Lies At The Dream's End"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (Original Music from the Netflix Series)**

**Departing**  
**"The Drop"**  
**Ludvig Forssell**  
**Death Stranding (Original Video Game Soundtrack)**


	36. Chapter 36: The Torch

"_It all matters less than you think."_

_The Mass Effect 3 Manual (2012)_

* * *

_Another world…_

Cold water gurgled and churned, a strong and squeezing pressure constricting and undulating in an uneven rhythm. With a slow roll, a crest of violent kinetic force swept up a briny reel and hurtled it against the damp sand of the long and sun-scarred beach. A quarian, thrown by the wave, smacked against the ground, sending clumps of the wet sand scattering. Granules stuck to her damaged enviro-suit and _sehni_, a brown crust that refused to cease clinging.

With her remaining hand, Roahn let out a tired moan as she grasped forward, lifting her head as she dragged herself from the ocean. Sea foam lapped around her body. Droplets misted her blue visor, dribbling across the cracks that had been delivered upon her. Medi-gel had been deployed by her suit automatically, working against the worst damage to her broken bones. It was not enough—pain flared every time she took a breath. She wanted to lay her head down and rest, perhaps forever, but knew that was not to be. She had come this far, had lived this long—drowning at this point would be an insult to the progress she had made, even though it had all been for nothing at the very end.

With a limping crawl, the quarian made it a few feet from where the surf ended before exhaustion overcame her and she collapsed. Her maimed foot dragging behind her, useless, and the stump of her left arm once again empty, it felt to Roahn like she had been shattered into pieces. Her swollen ankle felt ballooned inside her boot. Her lungs felt they were scraping along the cracks in her ribs. There was a remarkable chilliness that seemed all too eager to embrace her. Freezing and in agony—the combination was not at all enticing.

There was a soft trilling noise—like a nocturnal amphibian would make—to Roahn's right. She looked down and saw Aleph's teleportation pylon, miraculously still clenched in her hand, slowly ebb its turquoise light. Its energy faded, it became inert in her grip, only a solitary blinking power icon at its base. She instinctively pocketed the useless trinket.

Wetly gasping, Roahn rolled herself over onto her back. A deep purple sky, untarnished by light pollution, glistened a tender bed of stars above her while the firelight of the rising sun across the sea turned the boundary between day and night the color of toasted caramel. At her feet, the waves desperately grasped for her body. Across the ocean, floating sheets of ice bobbed in a slight harbor. Tipping her gaze forward, the quarian could glimpse caps of white atop distant mountains. Slight inclines of green grass marked hilly borders between the peaks and the sea. Tall bluffs barricaded the sides of the beach, tendrils of dusty wind sweeping from the sheer drops to be carried off in dizzying loops over the pounding water.

Rannochian winter. A clash of climates. If she rolled back over onto her stomach, she could see… _yes_, right there a mile down the beach! A glimmer of sunlight reflected from glazed windows. A familiar abode.

Home.

And in her line of sight, just below her family house, Roahn spotted a limp form lying upon dry sand. A body. Red rivulets soaked into the windswept shore, creating branches that weaved together a complex map, stemming from the lifeless person and drew downward for the waves to wash away like a sickening brush.

Her heart skipped a beat. A drop of adrenaline plunged into her veins.

"_Dad_…" she moaned as she pushed herself up, feebly scrambling to make it over to where the human was lying.

She worked to sit Shepard up, an effort that ended up failing miserably. Roahn then dragged her father away from the pool of blood he was creating and gently laid the back of his head onto her lap. His white hair was damp and matted with the ocean and the color red. The two remained in that position on the beach, a brutal wind flowing in from the sea, chilling the both of them to the bone.

An unfocused eye peered back up at her, a bruised eyelid fluttering open and shut intermittently. Roahn tried not to look at the empty pit of her father's missing eye, his patch having been misplaced. Recognizing who he was with, Shepard's cracked lips turned upwards in a smile.

"A dream…" he whispered.

"No…" Roahn said tearfully as she shook her head, a hole inside her soul boring right through her. "_No_. You're _awake_, dad. This isn't a dream. You're with me now. You're safe. Alive."

Fighting to control her breathing, Roahn looked out and towards the horizon, soaking in the environment while puffed clouds passed lazily overhead. A final look for salvation in any form, for she did not have the power or the strength to withstand what was unquestionably inevitable, she knew.

"You know where we are?" she asked her father as she tenderly squeezed his shoulder, battling to prevent a whimper from creeping into her voice. "Do you see? It's over, dad. We're _home_. We're home…"

"Home," Shepard slowly repeated, as if the word had been uttered in a foreign tongue. "Home. I'd almost forgotten, Roahn. Tell… tell me, honey. Tell me… what do you see?"

The quarian was now actively struggling to stem her tears—a losing battle. She had to silence her vocabulator for a few brief moments in order for Shepard to not hear her cry.

"I see…" she sniffled. "I see… the beach where we used to walk together as a family. Remember those summers? When the sand was hot and the temperature was perfect?"

"You always wanted to be walking between us," Shepard wistfully recounted. "Hand in hand. God… you were so little."

Roahn kept looking across the landscape for things to point out.

"I see… the _onosho_ tree right by our house. It's gotten to be gigantic. Mom always used to call me whenever I climbed too high on the branches."

"She always did worry for you. Wanted to make sure… you were safe."

"And there's… there's the mountains. Remember how beautiful they look when winter comes? It's like that right now. Covered with snow several feet thick. You took me up there once—it was so quiet, like a blanket had been thrown over the entire landscape. My feet sank right through the top layer. You were laughing. _Keelah_… it… it could very well have been yesterday."

Shepard closed his eyes in agreement, reminiscing of a past that had long run its course. Remembering what it was like to not have one's fear extend outward, to be fully entrenched in the moment, to have only love and family surround him, even if it was only for a fleeting time.

"I never had a home," Shepard murmured lethargically, still resting on Roahn's lap. "Not until after the war. _Huh_… Rannoch. Not what… I would have expected of myself as a young man. To lay down roots on the quarian homeworld. But it made sense in the end. Perfect sense. I had… your mother was there to guide me. Then you… Roahn… then you came along. It's a beautiful world… perhaps the one I always deserved. If it was good enough for your mother…"

The man was interrupted by a series of wracking coughs. Roahn held onto him in alarm, but he quickly reassured her with a simple pat on his daughter's forearm.

"I don't have long," his voice turned gravelly as he struggled to perceive his daughter in focus. "Roahn, please don't waste this chance."

But Roahn was unwilling to accept what was, in fact, a simple and obvious truth, no matter how firmly she tried to avoid it.

"No, no. I can—I can get you some help, dad. The town's not far away, I can return with a medic—"

"It's too late," Shepard gently emphasized as he struggled to peer upward, to penetrate that glass layer that separated her environment, her eternal prison, from his. "It's been too late… for a while now. I've always been doomed to a truncated life."

Roahn tried to ignore the growing red stain that was starting to slide out from underneath her father's body. It touched her leg, blotching the suit there with the remains of his life. Punished by Aleph, drained by the Monolith, the man who had endured so much had finally reached his limit. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

"Dad, please…" she mournfully mumbled as she hung her head, eyes shut in denial.

"I knew this… had been coming for a while now," he croaked as he continued to pat the quarian's arm. When she looked at him, he gave a simple nod. "Cancer. Same as your mother. Even if… all this hadn't happened… I still would not have had long. It's just… I made it to the end a little sooner than expected, it looks like."

In an instant, the man Roahn now held seemed so much smaller. So frail. The titan of war cut down by time, by disease. When she had been little, he had towered over her like a monument. And now she had him in her arms. The quarian gave a lethargic blink, squeezing a few tears out.

"You didn't try…?" she stumbled in her question.

But Shepard shook his head. "I did. Went to several doctors. Too many hospitals that I could count. Different medications, different treatments. All gave… similar diagnoses. The genes in my cells… simply had been altered too much over the years for any treatment to be effective. It all metastasized in my body at a—"

He trailed off as he now noticed that his daughter was crying. It always took him a little longer than normal to ascertain Roahn's emotions. The quarian was hanging her head, body quietly wracked by sobs. Shepard took a long look at her and his lips parted in a sigh—knowing how much this was hurting Roahn was bringing him pain as well. He struggled to lift an arm, limb wavering in the breeze. With a sniffle, Roahn noticed the effort and gently took his hand, guiding it up to the side of her helmet, to let his calloused palm feel the scratched metal where it met the cracked glass.

They stared at one another, half-blinded by tears, neither one willing to break the connection.

"You were…" Shepard spoke to Roahn breathily, "…absolutely perfect. As wonderful of a daughter as anyone could deserve."

Roahn was in danger of collapsing in hysterics. She had to shut her eyes again, the tears flowing more fiercely now.

"D-Dad…"

The ghost of a smile flitted across Shepard's mouth. He stared at the dying night sky serenely.

"'_Dad,_'" he repeated. "People… have called me many things over many years. Yet they all… pale in comparison… to the privilege you grant me… when you call me 'dad.' I can't wait… to tell Tali all about you."

The quarian was now crying even harder, her chest aching so much as she stifled her sobs.

"It's not fair!" Roahn cried. "This… all of this… it just isn't fair! You need—you need to be here! I can't… I can't lose you too. _Not you too_. I don't care about anything else! I just wanted to be with you. With mom. With my _family_. Why? Why couldn't I have just that? _Why?_ Why…"

Desperately, she clutched her father's hand with her own, nearly crushing it in her grip as she sought to hold onto him for as long as she could. As if the last of her strength was the one thing preventing him from slipping away.

A flock of sea birds flew by in a "V" formation, calling out to one another. Dried bushes made crackling noises as their bare branches brushed together. The lapping of the waves deposited frothy bubbles at the feet of the only people populating the beach. Shellfish were briefly uncovered as the water briefly swept away, only to be reburied as the sand filled the void.

Shepard's grasp subtly relaxed in Roahn's hand. Breathing quickly, Roahn's bright eyes widened as she beheld her father starting to lose focus again. He was lolling his head upward, his perception slipping at a rapid pace. He was fading.

"Dad?" Roahn whispered as she gave the human a gentle jostle. "Dad? No, no, dad. Stay with me. Stay with me! Dad!"

But he did not respond. He did not even seem to be listening. Rather, his eye swept upward further and further, almost as if he was staring into the overhead abyss, seeking to count the stars, wanting to know the mystery of how many worlds the galaxy held.

The roar of the waves nearly drowned out his next words.

"Tali…" he mumbled, almost drunkenly. He was seeing beyond Roahn now—a hallucination. "Tali…"

"No, dad," Roahn stumbled through her tears as she shook the man in her arm. "Dad, it's me. It's _Roahn_."

But her efforts were fruitless in trying to yank the man away from his phantoms, his final wraiths.

"Tali… can you see her? Isn't she amazing? Isn't she…"

Roahn felt Shepard's hand slacken completely in her grip. A simple exhalation made it past his still lips. His far-away gaze turned glassy and his head lolled against her body with a drying finality.

Commander John Shepard, the first human Spectre, the savior of the galaxy, was gone.

The morning proceeded to grow bright as the light found the quarian sobbing for long minutes over the still form of her father. She rocked back and forth, Shepard's eyes now closed, as her closed throat refused to give voice to her cries, to let the countryside consume her grief and for the sea to drown her despair with a constant drone. Roahn hugged her father's body as she became beside herself with sorrow, the chin of her helmet resting against the top of his whitened head. The pain that had manifested around her broken bones, cuts, and bruises had all been forgotten, for there was not a stab so brutal than what her heart had just suffered. Sensation fell away in a numb haze—a thick and slurring drug.

Behind the partition of her mask was a face frozen in a harrowing but silent shriek, one that distorted and stretched her features as she tried so hard to scream, but nothing would come up. Just air. Quiet, quiet air.

And so she cried. She cried for her father. She cried for herself. She cried for the memory of her mother. There was much to cry about, it seemed. Upon this stretch of sand, she was content to wallow in her solitude, to wither in the face of what the galaxy's cruelty could bestow upon her. She could cry for that as well.

Minutes passed—or was it hours?—as Roahn cradled the dead body of her father all alone there on the beach. The quarian was unable to move, in shock, disbelieving the final blow that had been delivered unto her. The sun felt warm as it bathed her suit. Warm on her legs and shoulders. Warmth through her visor. Warmth on her skin—

Her skin.

A burning sensation upon her arm. Light… directly upon it. Roahn's eyes fluttered open. That should not be possible. The rest of her body felt warm from the sun, yes, but there was a patch on her right triceps that felt unimaginably hot. Like someone had directed a lamp right at her arm there, searing it with a focused beam.

Almost afraid at what she would find, Roahn hesitated for a moment before she finally looked down to peer upon the source of this unforeseen stimuli.

She could only gape, emotional lubricants drying on her face.

There was a tear. A rip on her suit not even three inches long upon her left arm, two inches up from her elbow. Dried blood had stemmed from a cut she had inexplicably received, trickling down her limb and suit in burgundy roots. The cut itself, a red line upon deep gray skin, had clotted some time ago, washed clean by the ocean, it looked like. The wound was shallow, not at all serious, but that was the least of Roahn's worries. What gripped her with dread was the hidden trauma that had been inflicted—the exposure of her body to the outside, with all of its germs and particulates that would overwhelm her immune system in an instant.

But this rip… where had it come from? Surely, she would have known when…

_Remembering her fatigue, brow drenched with sweat, the sizzling noise of the teleporter engaging to her right, stumbling at the edge of a failed attack while on board the Morningtide. Aleph moved in after evading the quarian's slash, sword held high before he quickly gave a swipe forward, the arc passing dizzyingly close to Roahn's body. She could almost feel the heat of the blade. She jerked back instinctively, adrenaline dulling her senses, staving off little agonies while she warred, yet there remained a slight smolder. A tingle. She waved it off as a trick of her nerves, a deceiving remnant._

Then… she _had_ felt the heat. The omni-blade had indeed sliced through the mesh of her suit, faintly grazing against her skin. Aleph had made contact with his weapon, all along. In one fell swoop, Roahn realized, the cyborg had destroyed both her and Shepard. He had ended her family, all within the span of seconds.

Her hand unconsciously went to her collar, her breathing becoming fiercer. How long had she been exposed, breathing in deadly atmospheres? But no matter how much she thought about it, the answer made no sense.

Too long. It had been too long since she had been given this wound. Whether for a second or a day, any vulnerabilities in her suit would have taken effect in an obvious fashion, the results nearly instantaneous. Then why was it she was not exhibiting symptoms? She should have been rolling on the ground by now, frothing red foam at the mouth as her lungs filled with fluid, blood vessels in her eyes ruptured, and her throat closed completely shut.

Yet, despite all the evidence, the result was completely contrarian to logic. She was, for the moment, symptom-less.

The pacing of her breathing refusing to die down, Roahn quickly punched in a diagnostic command for her suit to make an analysis. The processors embedded within the micro-fiber of the enviro-suit's cortical layers gave a result back in seconds as various sensors took simultaneous readings of her blood, her immune system, and other bodily functions. They blazed out a result for her to see on the inside of her visor, though she was still half-blinded by tears and had to blink several times in order to read it.

All diagnostics were returning with all readings firmly within their normal ranges. No infection. No adverse reaction. She was absolutely healthy.

"I don't…" Roahn's teeth chattered as her mind swam in a teetering daze as she peered at the damaged suit flap, staring at the torn skin underneath. Her voice sounded strained, raw, like her throat was cracked and blistering. "But I… I don't _understand_…"

Then a sudden spike, a long-lost pain, rippled through her in a surge of memory. A statement, one she had thought had been blithely uttered, only to realize its actual significance. It was the final piece of the puzzle, the one thing that she had not yet figured out, but had been assured that she would.

Aleph. Her conversation.

_On that desolate moon, she remembered standing in her frozen state while an uncovered Aleph raised his fingers to the sun, light melting off of his fingertips as an imperceptible vibration began to overtake his limb. The cyborg's two-toned eyes ruthlessly refused to break his gaze with the quarian, and his soft words carried a finality as he turned his palm upward._

"_Consider this a gift," he had said, right before an energetic jolt, like a bolt of lightning, seemed to split Roahn at the seams. _

_The quarian could remember her own terrifying screams as she collapsed and writhed on the ground while her reality tore itself all apart around her. Nerves injected with fire. Skin feeling like poisonous insects crawling around underneath. The flesh of her eyes seemingly bubbling and boiling. Terrible agonies, such that she had never experienced before. The pain would soon shut itself off shortly thereafter, though it had been a sensation that had felt like it had lasted a lifetime._

"_What did you do to me?" she had thickly gasped once it was all over._

"_In time, you will find that out," had been his answer._

Opening her eyes, Roahn stared down at her three-fingered hand, looking upon it dumbly as a tortured calmness began to uncontrollably radiate from her body. Something within her intrinsically understood the meaning behind his words, even though she was slow to catch up.

"It can't be…" was all she could say, could think.

That pain she had felt, when Aleph had closed his hand… Roahn had thought he had been deliberately using the power of the Monolith to torture her in a sadistic display, to manipulate her implants in such a way simply to bring her agony. In a way, she was not too far off from the truth, but only that at no point were Aleph's motives in any way made out of malice.

Roahn's diagnosis test was able to fill in the blanks. A discrepancy in her immune system had been logged between this test and the last one she had undergone, which had been about a week prior. Now it was picking up a prosperous augmentation in the existence of certain proteins associated with her innate immune system. Dendritic cells, macrophages, monocytes, neutrophils, epithelial cells. Roahn's blood was swimming in these newfound proteins, all coded to the identification of common pathogen molecules and damage patterns. Common in other species… but not in quarians. So much change… all so suddenly. This was not an evolution that had been manifested from a mere adaption to an environment. This was a change foisted upon a struggling system, a massive update and reboot that had completely and irrevocably altered the cellular structure of an intricate complex.

Altered, but for the better?

It had indeed been the implants that had caused this, Roahn's eyes widened as she continued to read the findings from her diagnostic. But she had misunderstood the sensation they had brought upon her when Aleph had activated them. They had directly stimulated several of her body organs to operate at levels that had never been considered feasible in a regular quarian. Immunomodulator hormones, spurned to generation by her tissues, were altering the sensitivity of her immune system to produce cells designed to target the most basic of diseases. Alterations to her chromosomes and genes had also been documented, too! The implants had initiated a rudimentary form of gene therapy to attack the very linkages in her genetic structure that made her vulnerable to an acute allergic reaction. The list of affected chromosomes seemed endless: 3p24 chromosome, chemokine cell receptor 4, 5q25-33 chromosome, β2-Adrenergic receptor, TIM2 gene, 7q12-11 for the T-cell receptor γ chain, 20p8 chromosome, ADAM-34 gene. Each and every one a candidate for every single immunologic vulnerability in her system.

Every single potentially fatal flaw in her system had been patched.

Aleph had gifted her this, to be able to perceive the universe without a barrier of fear to stand in the way. He had wanted for her, all along, to know what it truly felt to be an equal.

With trembling fingers, Roahn reached up and depressed the catches on the underside of her mask. She did not lift the visor away just yet, with one final thought running through her head, that she was completely out of her mind for even considering what she was about to do. That thought was overridden as she slowly proceeded to slide the covering away from the slots in her helmet so that she could set it beside her. The visor slowly sunk into the damp sand, tiny particulates sparkling around its face.

Cold ocean air washed over her face. The strong smell of the sea barged into her nostrils. It burrowed into her tongue—the taste of brine and ice. A sensation so intense she began crying again. So much… it was all so much. She was no longer afraid, for her dread had melted away like morning frost under the sun's gaze. Out there, sitting on that beach with that same gaze beating down upon her head, the quarian breathed the air of Rannoch, again and again.

That insurmountable obstacle… finally harnessed.

Mouth curved downward, lips parted, the tips of her teeth showing, Roahn gave a loud sob as she now looked down upon her father, watching his peaceful face where he lay upon her lap. Her tears streamed down her face rapidly, so fast her eyelids could no longer hold back the tide. She cried because she had realized her new advantage too late. Too late for her father to see. He had died staring up at his own mirrored reflection in that stupid blue glass of her visor. He had probably wanted to see her face one last time before it was over. But now he would never get that chance. Neither of them would.

He died staring back at that soulless helmet when all he had wanted was to see his daughter.

The quarian was dangerously quaking, tiny gasps struggling to make themselves heard as she shuddered with her destructive throes. The world washed away in fluid hues, an impenetrable glaze misting across her vision as her thoughts fizzled into nothingness, into obscurity.

Roahn threw her head back and gave a howling scream to the sky, eyes clenched shut so tightly that tears bubbled from the corners. She screamed and screamed and screamed, opening her mouth as wide as it would go. She wanted to crack the sky with her voice, to have it all cave in and topple down upon her, to let it all consume her with its heavy wrath so that her shattered mind would remain in pieces no longer.

Her screams echoed across the beach, over the waves, and across the ocean. They became the sound of the tide, capturing the quarian's pain and anguish in its forever churn.

Whenever a wave broke, Roahn's scream wailed back.

* * *

_Citadel Tower_

Ornate elevator doors pushed aside to allow the lone occupant to step from the lift. Aleph strode into the Council chambers, the light dim and oily. His armor, polished like an ancient ceremonial warrior, oozed reflected illumination at every angle. Shapes and shadows slid off of his perfectly curved helmet, a dynamic impression throwing off the bonds of stagnancy. He did not speak as he stood to let the magnificence of the place beset its monumental importance upon him. A thoughtful beat passed. He appeared satisfied.

There was an eerie quiet that presided over the room, one that would normally have been inhabited by the light chattering and murmuring of politicians and envoys. The cradle of galactic civilization, reduced to a ghastly silence. Aleph found an odd comfort in the place, relishing the wide-open area where the only emitted sounds resonated from himself.

He walked in a straight line upon the solid white marble tiles and ascended the staircases one after the other. Trees with golden leaves formed a halo of decaying vegetation at their base where they had been planted. Recessed fountains spewed faint trickles of water that were neither ostentatious nor overbearing. The sloped walls stretched high to the ceiling, allowing Aleph's footfalls to reverberate wetly. There had been a thoughtful design to this place—to emphasize an atmosphere of nurturing and organic symbiosis. A pity, Aleph reasoned, that the metaphorical construction had been manifested from a woefully naïve mindset.

Aleph paused in his gait before he lifted a foot and stepped over a body in the middle of the hall, his cloak faintly brushing the edges of the deceased's face as he traveled.

He avoided stepping in any of the dark puddles that had long dried upon the floor, continuing to evading the other bodies distributed around the room that had been the source of these discharges. There had to have been at least three dozen of them that laid upon the ground, sprawled upon the stairs, slumped on the benches. People of every race and creed, with analogous expressions of shock apparent on their faces, their last thoughts being of a single and ubiquitous panic.

Unique in life. Similar in death.

Blood had all leaked from their orifices at the exact same moment in a single stroke—brutal hemorrhages struck by an impartial hand. The blood sometimes mixed together, forming odd colors. Red. Blue. Greed. Magenta. There was a spectral beauty in it, this shared death. A scene so still it was like walking into a painting.

Aleph then made it to the final set of stairs as he walked around a hilled garden feature. His hands remained unclenched at his sides. Internally, he held no pleasure, no sense of finality. There was no revelry to be had. There were other things to consider, other prospects to concern himself with.

He regretted that he had felt it necessary to trick Roahn'Shepard in such a fashion by constructing that facsimile of himself, but he had reasoned that there would have been no other way to see his objectives through without it. The schematics for its design had all been derived from Aleph's own make—the sole copy locked safely in his head—and he had spent a great deal of time devoting himself to making it as structurally congruous as he intended, though he had made some deliberate concessions in his work. Commanding such an intricate platform from such a distance was always going to entice the issue of input lag, but Aleph felt that such a reduction in reaction time was a sacrifice that he was more than willing to make, considering the stakes. In the end, procuring the necessary materials and finding the time to build the facsimile was an investment Aleph was only interested in making once. He held no designs on replicating his efforts going forward. The past was the past, and the future dictated his full attention.

At the end of the chamber, a thin platform jutted out above a greenhouse—a place where hopefuls came to beseech the Council. Aleph walked to the end of the platform. A holo-panel blinked forth, reacting to his presence. He looked down at it, studying the icons for a moment, before he touched a single button. A stout walkway then extended from the overhang, connecting the platform to the risers on the other side, the area where the Council usually stood. No bodies were occupying that part of the terrace—the members of the Council would most likely be found lying in their offices, but that was not what Aleph wanted to see right now.

He approached the tall window, the one that had shattered when Sovereign had first attacked the station thirty years ago. Before him stretched the five arms of the Citadel, each one dark and dead. A lifeless structure, floating in space without a purpose. No lines of skycar traffic glittered like embedded wires on a chip. No crystal glass spires of skyscrapers beamed beacons of office light.

It was just him. Alone. A singular point with only the deceased as his brethren.

Aleph was motionless, completely consumed with anticipation. Years upon years of planning. Only now were things finally coming to fruition. The maneuvering, the scheming, the manipulation. His cultivated patience had finally been rewarded. He could scarcely believe it himself, yet the proof was before his eyes.

The Tranquility had come to pass.

The moment broken, Aleph suddenly wavered and he dropped to a knee, briefly stricken by violent and brutal thrashes. He bent his back, armor creaking, as he clenched his hands tightly, almost as if he was erupting into a bellow. But the cyborg remained silent throughout, his cloak flowing around his legs. Rage and despondency, muzzled and caged. Aleph shook where he knelt like he was being stabbed over and over again. His hands unclenched and formed savage claws, grasping at nothing. A subtle plea, meant only for himself, or a lament, knowing that forgiveness would forever be out of reach.

The spasm passed and Aleph fell still. With a heavy scraping of boots, he rose back up, head slowly tilting upward, the five arms of the Citadel evenly splayed out upon his helmet. The cyborg was not intent on standing on ceremony in this place. He reached up, disconnected two thick cablings that snaked into ports around the curve of his covering before he lifted the helmet off his head entirely and let go of it. The covering crashed at his feet.

His bare faceplate exposed, his damaged and lidless eyes stared serenely out the window, past the fruitless grasp of the station and out into the cold infinite beyond. The icons that glimmered around the shield that protected his face glowed aquamarine, as did the tubes that connected from his jaw and trailed down his neck. An electric jitter passed through him, an elated feeling. What was to come would be the determinant lynchpin for the development of this galaxy, the fulcrum point that would decide the fate of trillions. All of the motifs he had in place, the underlying pattern, all had formed according to his design. Now everything would depend on the reactions from the afflicted—an urging for the civilized galaxy to face their destiny and to seize it.

The war to end the concept of war. To bring about a forever era of peace.

A Tranquil War.

As a shadow from a far-away binary cluster became blotted out by the Reaper that was descending into place, its squid-like reflection glinting off a corner of Aleph's faceplate, the cyborg lifted a hand, feeling the connection he had with the creature, tugging at its power, and grasping it between unyielding fingers. It offered no resistance, giving itself willingly to the man who had summoned it, who held its strings.

A thick wheeze of satisfied breath escaped the ventilation intakes upon Aleph's neck. His instruments for the coming conflict had been assembled. Now it was time to see how they could be countered.

"It all led to this," he whispered to himself, the demonic tremulation in his voice having vanished. "I took the route that was presented to me, same as everyone else took theirs. Only I could see where it led. The end. The trillions and trillions that followed mindless paths, that made blind choices, and took familiar turns, they helped lead me to this moment. They made their choices… but they were still choices. The paths they made were resistant to change. Even more so to abrupt change. They drew the shape for me without realizing that the lines could not be erased. There was no other way for me to live. There exist forces that everyone refuses to acknowledge the existence of. Sometimes these forces inhabit permanent shapes. To bring form to the formless."

Another tender sucking breath.

"They say history is written by the victors. A binary point of view. History should be written by the truth. And the authors should be the equitable virtuosos. The painter laying down his colors upon canvas to make a beautiful rendition borne from his experiences. The craftsman carving out a stone trough to last ten thousand years. Even an artificial mind giving shape to a mass relay—a technology that would shape the course of evolution for millennia. Creations that had been manifested from a simple adherence to what their makers perceived as their own truth. How will history interpret my truth? Perhaps they will think I had delivered a threat, one that I made good on. Others may think I delivered on a promise. Suppose both are what constitutes the truth. The answer, as maybe they will never realize, doesn't matter. I have only my path to follow. Those that tread in my footsteps are left to decipher my reasoning. They are welcome to try. They will try to think of me as a painter, a craftsman, or an AI. Everything happens for a reason, doesn't it? If only I had the design on becoming a painter. I might even have found delight in such intentions. To make worlds of my own imagination on the confines of a canvas, of a screen. Would my truth have found a similar form on such mediums? I would like to think so. But that was not where my path led me. Like all of us, I could not deviate."

* * *

**A/N: A year and two months. Half a million words. I don't think that, when I first started writing, I would ever devote so much time to one singular story, let alone a series of my own making. From what was intended to be its own self-contained story has now morphed into... this. I blink my eyes and wonder how the hell this all happened, sometimes.**

**And we're still not done!**

**As you can probably tell, the story of Cenotaph and of Roahn is not finished. Not remotely. I know you must have a lot of questions, such as, "What happened to Cirae?", "Why did you bring a Reaper back only to not use it all that much?", "Why are you killing everyone I love, Rob?" Trust me, I know that you might be going through some confusion, and that's entirely by design. The answers to which I intend to provide all of you in Cenotaph's final installment: Mausoleum. The good news is, I've outlined 90% of that third story already and will be fixing the overall plan up in the coming weeks. The bad news? I'm probably not going to start writing it right away. Let's face it, a year and two months of regular writing is a long time, and since I'm not getting paid for any of this (sadly) I don't have that much free time to devote to this hobby. I tell you, I'm exhausted. It'll be at least a month or two before I start working on Mausoleum, to finish the conflict between Roahn and Aleph, because I've had this story in my head for too damn long. I need to put it to paper otherwise I'll go insane. Don't worry, you won't be waiting half a year for me to start writing. I won't be able to stay away for very long.**

**I should extend my profound thanks to all of you who read this far and have provided your thoughts towards this beast - your opinions have, and always will be, valuable to me and I'm grateful for your feedback. The Cenotaph series would not be here if it weren't for you.**

**One last time, I really would like to know what you thought about this last chapter, or about the story as a whole. Let me know what you felt I did right, so that I can focus on continuing that streak going forward, or what I did wrong, so that I can correct any problem areas in the future. Any and all opinions are welcome (except for flaming/trolling - those posts I either laugh at or delete). Reviews are the lifeblood of an author and, though I'll never lock a chapter behind an arbitrary number of reviews required per chapter, I want to know how my audience feels.**

**I'm bloating this A/N, so I'll wrap this up. Thank you all for reading Cenotaph II: Monolith and I hope you found a lot of entertainment in reading it. I'm looking forward to seeing you again when Cenotaph III: Mausoleum finally comes out. You've been a great audience, as always.**

**Playlist:**

**The Beach**  
**"On Your Way"**  
**Daniel Pemberton**  
**Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**

**Dead Citadel (End)**  
**"Call Me Joker"**  
**Hildur Guðnadóttir**  
**Joker (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)**


End file.
